tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4223159919712945652024-03-12T19:45:02.732-07:00Jef KellyJef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.comBlogger26125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-42964896997808098322013-03-05T10:23:00.000-08:002013-03-05T10:23:15.811-08:00<br />
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Reality vs Myth 21 Secular Days</div>
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The home fires now burn bright in
my solitary hearth. Sister Morphine having faced her soulful task with alacrity
dismissed the gathered shadow-monger who as chorused fell silent and melted faraway
in landscape cruel; at the portent of this our new born day. </div>
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Through bog land our companions
traversed intent on homeward path. The Sky rose bright. The mountains blue. The
waters of reflection now resolved of bloodied-hue. The Comrades of old bade
welcomes stood guard on feted shore as Cromwell and his minions sank low into
the mire; as we rejoiced in harmony of good fortune and of constitutional lies.</div>
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21 secular days come full circle
from lonesome collapse guided by skillful surgeries to aid recovery unlike this
fallen tree. No heed neither taken nor acquiesced of your insidious cancers now
coursing through my brain. The bold-scalpel took away my bowel but enough is
still remained to reverse this co-operation in order to prevent such are the
insanities of human life and I forsworn in corporeal pain. Thus cut by stranger-surgeon from midriff
unto groin and reversed ‘like’ scooped-out oranges more usually found when one
is slowly evolving into a humanoid echo-chambered with attitude; thus now in
historical resolve.</div>
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<o:p> </o:p>© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh march <span style="font-size: 10pt;">05 2013</span></div>
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Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-46148469511869401852013-02-20T12:01:00.002-08:002013-02-20T12:43:02.628-08:00Alienation of the Singular Parent causation and effect on being found surplus to requirement<br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Alienation of the Singular Parent causation and effect
on being found surplus to requirement<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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To even suggest there must be
equable law to safeguard the human right of all parents rather as is the case
in 21<sup>st</sup> century Ireland that one parent’s rights over the other
exist would be heard at first hearing as wholly deserving on the part of the
deemed miscreant former partner; and not simply a jurisprudence proposition in societal
fiscal-acquisition. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Guilty as charged until proven
innocent? Unfortunately the schematic to assuage such a fanciful notion that
the state is against any and/or all notion that the equal right of a parent
regardless of gender and/or marital-status be paramount; as lynch-pin of
constitution in aspiring democratic Republic.</div>
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The family court is little more
than a barbaric arena held in camera no witness of defense is allowed nor
indeed required by the professional participants in this archaic ritual of
post-traumatic break-down of all adult relationship and their garnering of
fiscal enhancement; so enjoined in overt deceit? </div>
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<br /></div>
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Paid annually for in millions of
borrowed Eurodollars on the whole I might add derived from state-coffer, by the
state and for the state. A legalized plunder of wealth, status and exorbitant
lifestyle thus afforded further allowed to the minority in society prepared to
support the status-quo; ad-infinitum rather than the majority so-affected.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The alienated Father however does
not ‘stand accused’ as one may witness in the myriad criminal courts that now
abound in modern day <st1:country-region w:st="on">Ireland</st1:country-region>.
Indeed no. That would be too easy to contest and result in the right to a
lawful defense under the constitution; a constitution sworn in life’s blood to
vindicate the life, person, and good name and property rights of every citizen?
</div>
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BUNREACHT NA hÉIREANN </div>
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<i>Articles 40 to 44 of the Irish Constitution provide for 'Fundamental
Rights'. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>Article 40 extract - Personal rights<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>•Equality before the law<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>•Vindicate the life, person, and good name and property rights of every
citizen<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>•<st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Liberty</st1:place></st1:city><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>•Express freely convictions and opinions<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>•Form associations and unions<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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But unfortunately the following
anomaly only exists for children where their parents are of state-church approved marital status.</div>
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<i>3. 1° The State pledges itself to guard with special care the
institution of Marriage, on which the Family is founded, and to protect it
against attack. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>2° A Court designated by law may grant a dissolution of marriage where,
but only where, it is satisfied that <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>i. At the date of the institution of the proceedings, the spouses have
lived apart from one another for a period of, or periods amounting to, at least
four years during the five years, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>ii. There is no reasonable prospect of reconciliation between the
spouses, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>iii. such provision as the Court considers proper having regard to the
circumstances exists or will be made for the spouses, any children of either or
both of them and any other person prescribed by law, and <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i>iv. Any further conditions prescribed by law are complied with.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Ergo the alienated single-Father
stands alone. Any attempt to address the court is summarily dismissed at best
practice or at worst are accused of offering up the promulgation of political
doctrine; aimed solely to the detriment of attendant judiciary and the imminent
downfall of the state. The Alienated Father not simply perceived as a singular
lone figure bewildered by ceremony of state in their hitherto private life. The
Alienated Father accused without any terms of redress to a contrary state of
affairs often mere hours before their perceived commitment of offence during
relationship breakdown is then fired into the public domain; most often without
notice of forewarning.</div>
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The Fundamental Right of Liberty
go’s straight out the window. Despite there being no openly perceived criminality
on the part of the miscreant-partner they are at the very outset of proceedings
warned that to infringe upon the declared outcome of this familial ‘trial’ will
result in pecuniary disadvantage and subsequent state-imprisonment of up to one
year of detention.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This all before any request by the court for ‘social’
reportage albeit by practitioners of Neuro-linguistic programming (NLP) whose
only qualifications I can ascertain are in hypnotism, sports injury further
afforded by a 12 week night-course at Newry College of Further Education in
familial mediation. NLP underlying the 'local' practioners 'qualifications' I may add accredited of one Richard Bandler and a John Grinder NLP created by them in California, USA in the 1970's. The balance of scientific evidence however reveals NLP to be a largely discredited albeit lucrative pseudoscience.</div>
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<i>ii. There is no reasonable prospect of reconciliation between the
spouses, <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>iii. such provision as the Court considers proper having regard to the
circumstances exists or will be made for the spouses, any children of either or
both of them and any other person prescribed by law, and<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>iv. Any further conditions prescribed by law are complied with.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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The above quote serves only to
reinforce the inequality now set before familial-law. To disagree with that
contention is to affirm that the ‘single-Father’ is justifiably denied their
fundamental human right reinforced by societal decree. Denied as an equable parent from
inception of that child’s life, of joint upbringing, of educational, spiritual
and love of that life. To be now found as wholly criminal in intent without
benefit of equable familial-law, lack of redress when proven innocent and
censored with fine and/or state imprisonment. Ego v<i>indicates the life, person, and good name and property rights of every
citizen except that of the unmarried, single ex-partner; outside state-church
preferred marriage-service and/or regardless of societal wish for sanctioned equable parental-relationship.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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© The Misery Industry by Séafra Ó
Ceallaigh agus Conor Dignam 2013</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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BUNREACHT NA hÉIREANN </div>
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<a href="http://www.taoiseach.gov.ie/upload/publications/297.pdf" target="_blank">http://www.taoiseach.gov.ie/upload/publications/297.pdf</a></div>
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AN COIMISIÚN UM CHEARTA AN DUINE ~ IRISH HUMAN RIGHTS COMMISSION</div>
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Promoting & Protecting Human Rights in Ireland</div>
<br />
<a href="http://www.ihrc.ie/yourrights/whatarehumanrights/constitution.html" target="_blank">http://www.ihrc.ie/yourrights/whatarehumanrights/constitution.html</a><br />
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Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-60993762335341618072013-01-18T12:48:00.000-08:002013-01-18T12:48:16.526-08:00The Stranger from Next Door<br />
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The Stranger from Next Door</div>
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Stranger from a distant shore
found alien to his cause. We spoke at length you and me of times long since
passed left shrouded by memory and its mournful loss. I know not of the matters
in others hands you so erudite explain. The walk thus continued round and
about. Day clashed as night fell among the Stars to reveal naught but the
rising of yet one more frondescent Moon.</div>
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The greeting was wholesome.
Genuine, unfettered no burden of the words that were not of your origination
provoked my Soul. The hunger thus sated in excise-hall echoed from tribal
tongue of highland lass betrayed your solitude of mirth. Grape of vine and leaf
of Plant combined to expurgate the distant tone of battles yet unsought. The
demon left within concluded your debauchery and altercation devoid of joyous
sin.</div>
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We sat for a while along the way.
Drank coffee but did not smoke cigarettes nor decaffeinated leaf. Safe from the
thought of dying and its construct laboured breathing unto death. It was a Saturday
night I recall. Youth blossomed abroad upon the neon-lit streets. Long of leg
and short of skirt mindful always of its effect. Conversation passed time
warped the warm hearth ablaze we stood to demand our rightful ingress.</div>
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To the east lay <st1:city w:st="on">Babylon</st1:city>
to the west <st1:place w:st="on">Connaught</st1:place> to the north lay Hell
and to the south lay our indifference of things already of the past. I stood as
he did at the top of the stairwell. I turned to the abyss and threaded silk
scarf through hook and plaster. I wore the scarf in triumphant will of matters
over his mind; and wondered of the fall of <st1:city w:st="on">Rome</st1:city>.</div>
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On mornings light we bade
farewell. The rain fell lightly on this holy ground. The Sun rose and the Sun
set before the body was discovered next door and dispatched to the morgue
oblivious to the presence of a stranger nearby once traveled from distant
shore.</div>
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© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2013</div>
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Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-20490036590130512672013-01-07T09:13:00.000-08:002013-01-07T09:41:33.626-08:00Horse-shite as fiscal-commodity NLP and/or will the real George Harold Formby please stand up?<br />
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Note: <i>The following missive is not intended as a slight against the horse,
the breeders of horses nor indeed gun-slingers who on occasion ride horses
robbing banks in <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Hollywood</st1:place></st1:city>;
many of such dissident-ilk I put pride of place in my facebook profile list of
real-time agus elektronik-friend[s].</i>
</div>
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Assumption it is said. Is the
Mother of all Fuck ups ergo “We assume therefore. We are not.” Many of you who
'say' they are my friends on 'facebook' are really not my friends in any real
sense of the word friendship. George Harold Formby does not in-fact exist
neither does 'Jeffrey Kelly' although everyone assumes that 'they do' simply
because it is 'written' in electronic stone and that imagery set in front of
thine very own eyes doth prove 'beyond all reasonable doubt' that they do in
'actuality' exist when 'perceived' by you as a willing member of that 'in the
main' uninvited audience; i.e. you who now read these words on 'my' facebook
profile?</div>
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The majority of facebook ‘social-networkers’
are present by association. If one is perceived by others to be in association
with a 'Jeffrey Kelly' that noted overt dissident of 'Gun-dalk' town it follows
that “One associates therefore one is” and everyone will look up to 'one'
without 'one' having to do so much as 'piss into the wind' to get ones own
back; on society or 'whatever' said with popularized *fey accent which thus far
in each of ones highly insignificant boring life has stunted ones own
developmental issues of self-empowerment; enabling one at the very least not to
go 'have a pint'. Albeit without first pleading, begging, cajoling ones wife,
partner for permission to do so on a Saturday night? <i>*behaving or talking in very unusual, uninhibited ways that suggest
possible psychiatric disorder</i></div>
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Therefore; we the People must not
agree with a George Harold Formby! Why? Because he and his fancy ideas of
reality, freedom, self-empowerment, truth, justice, equable human-rights and failure
to ‘Keep his gob shut!’ etc. etc. on just about every issue known to the
Humanoid throughout the Planet you chose to call ‘Mother Earth’ is by
‘association’ a fucking big No-No! I shit you not, Earthlings. </div>
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But I digress; this tale of the
Pilgrim is not about you. It is about me? It is more specifically about
third-party perceptions of who it is 'I am supposed to be' in the real-time.
How can anyone know me when even I do not know?</div>
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Take for example a pile of horse-shite
emanate of <i>Equus ferus caballus</i>. No
matter how hard one shovels. The pile of horse-shite remains high upon this
holier-than-thou ground we inhabit during those transient four score years plus
ten. It doesn’t get any better especially for the horse either. It won’t get
any better. It can’t get any better. Life as they used to ascribe to in the
1960’s ‘Is shite and then you die.’ The answer of course lays in the soil.
Whack a few Roses in the flower-bed of life with copious amounts of eco-crap
and you end up with at least a tuneful promise of a rose-garden like no other
before and/or since. </div>
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The promise of horse-shite
regardless of its one obvious limitation is boundless it is not something one
can after all is said and done eat unless one is French then all one has to do
is bypass the shite covering the European landscape and fire the tasty-fucker
into the nearest stereotypical ‘frog’ type cooking-pot and Pierre is your
uncle?</div>
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Horse-shite evolves quite
naturally throughout contemporary society if left well alone to promulgate.
This evolution takes on many forms and guises to fool the unwary citizen during
its initial incubation growth and subsequent development into maturity. You may
innocently ask a child what it is they want to be when they grow up.
Normal-kids will reply “I want to be myself” - “I want to be a Lunatic” - “I
want to be an Artist” - “I want to be a Clown”. Odd-kids borne of horse-shite aka Dobbin over
there will however respond with “I want to be like the politician that likes my
father” - “I want to be like the Priest who likes my brother” - “I want to be
corrupt like Daddy who doesn’t like anyone.” And so-on and so-forth until you
get the picture.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In conclusion: Any passing
sanitation engineer will attest to the following truism “Horse-shite like
Cows-cream will always float to the top of your breakfast bowl” A final word of
caution Comrades. We are dealing with forces not only beyond our band-width of
innate-intelligence but we are faced with the most god-almighty stench of
state-church-societal corruption in the whole of the known World the Universe
and Everything! Ergo we must fart much louder and be far more proud to do so in
2013.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
© Séafra Ó
Ceallaigh 2013 </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Addendum: The above literary style of writing is not
original i.e. the use of the whole of the alphabet + vowels is due to many
influences since my skill @ joined-up writing became apparent in circa. 1958. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But is mainly to the erudite, succinct and entirely to their
point of influence of the literary genius behind See Change Coaching Practice Dundalk
those high quality Family Mediation and Family Services that are Neuro-linguistic programming *NLP
Master Practitioners (Certified by Dr. Richard Bandler) with backgrounds in
Sport and Social Care respectively. Thus qualified and in the employ of the Family-court in Dundalk who on occasion write reports for the courts on whether or not one is deemed fit to participate in the life of ones children. Simply because ones former-partner says so without one shred of legal evidence to the contrary. Despite the scenario known similarly to myriad Dads in abject-misery as with my case having spent the previous 13 agus 16 years ensuring the utmost care, love, safety and responsibility toward the positive, physical, mental agus spiritual upbringing; and happy productive and creatively constructive lives to my daughters.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
*Neuro-linguistic programming
(NLP) is a discredited approach to communication, personal development, and
psychotherapy created by Richard Bandler and John Grinder in <st1:state w:st="on">California</st1:state>,
<st1:country-region w:st="on">USA</st1:country-region>
in the 1970s. The title asserts a connection between the neurological processes
(‘neuro’), language ("linguistic"), and behavioural patterns learned
through experience (‘programming’) that proponents speculate can be changed to
achieve specific goals in life.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hZ2Li4QyAGFLQ9Y76hF3z5go7mMobUVZA-G00zU5LNPv3c9d_QG3kHs2OQO2WbGzqimsda7fDNwPn3g0bDBVGX9_RDSww22yfX3jgUDOxXva8H5ce8J28VMZKO2IZbDzjhWHhJZbI52U/s1600/429028_176230025826333_1975013408_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5hZ2Li4QyAGFLQ9Y76hF3z5go7mMobUVZA-G00zU5LNPv3c9d_QG3kHs2OQO2WbGzqimsda7fDNwPn3g0bDBVGX9_RDSww22yfX3jgUDOxXva8H5ce8J28VMZKO2IZbDzjhWHhJZbI52U/s320/429028_176230025826333_1975013408_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-282410038198086592012-12-25T11:58:00.000-08:002012-12-25T12:21:35.132-08:00PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT<div style="text-align: justify;">
In September 2011 my Children were stolen from
me whilst I lay disadvantaged then as now Terminally-ill with
Throat-Cancer. The Oncology Social Worker Department at the Beaumont
Hospital albeit unknowingly alongside the aegis of Family Court in
Dundalk colluded in this singular familial deception. Thus resultant
in my being furnished an arbitrary barring order from my family home
the day of my discharge onto the streets of Dublin for a period of
two years. Eviction more precisely to the bus-stop outside the
hospital with no access to cash money; as my 'joint' bank accounts
had been emptied the previous evening by persons known and/or
unknown. This soulless discharge from so-called Health Executive
Service HSE care via the Oncology Department at the Beaumont Hospital
was commissioned and put into effect solely by mere unsubstantiated
gossip, hearsay and slanderous accusation ergo without one shred of
evidence being forwarded by the appellate nor asked of me to the
contrary and/or any reputable referee on my behalf.
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
It is now my
intention to bring the matter into the Peoples forum for adjudication
by the People not simply on my own behalf but also for that of lawful
provision of benefit to the People and its constitution. Inclusive of
and notwithstanding those myriad other alienated parents so affected
by the iniquities of gendered state judiciary and its innate bias
toward the male partner in personal adult relationship breakdown in
this or any matriarchal power based society. Particularly one so
embroiled as is the Republic of Ireland long governed by dogmatic
foreign religiosity that in essence perceives the female of the
species as alien and our children long before conception as
commodity. At one revered mother figure immediately at odds with
that religion through its educational stranglehold on the male
spousal counterpart thus sanctified and further endorsed by such
ingrates infected; as inexpensive street whore.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
Today it is
Christmas Day 2012. I sit alone at the table of celebratory feast of
Jesus born without child. I like he ostracized by the very society
that willingly condemned his body to suffer the indignity of
crucifixion and ultimate corporeal death. A revolutionary mind alien
in concept still to the majority of good roman citizens. A Jew who
authored the bible with which you now thump your craw in times of
fiscal famine; the search of its truth long since abandoned to the
vagarious of your survival. Survival above that of all other species
long bartered as human slave and fodder in sure and uncertain hope of
your resurrection long since past into time and pointless histories.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
It matters
not the consequence of my nor your action only that of inaction. The
People now gather in the Halls of Mochta. A new golden age of
enlightenment is upon us. The dawn of Republic is no longer virtual,
a fragile concept, an aberration of dissent it will soon defeat and
then make whole the Peoples sovereign Republic; that defeat now
ensconced firmly in penultimate conclusion. As is the long awaited
homecoming of all my children.</div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
Séafra </span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Ó</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
Ceallaigh December 25</span><sup><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">th</span></sup><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
2012</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><br />
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/dads.justice.7?fref=ts" target="_blank">Dads Justice International</a></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
© Beyond Monastic musings in Mochta's halls ~ In paradisum deducant te Angeli</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<a href="https://vimeo.com/49537969" target="_blank">The Hall of Mochta</a></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1G3f1Qm3EqREHsJ1I-q20MWCQQUTI4YMCL0oXcFMK-xIWhOFMI0OWvuQUciK_was7XTSHBQA17Go_7c5n03X8JBUReaDkJaS6IrDklQsUIh71I2SzCWi8MtVJdmlkNhfMuTty9O5tytz_/s1600/228414_277855602330441_1771682525_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1G3f1Qm3EqREHsJ1I-q20MWCQQUTI4YMCL0oXcFMK-xIWhOFMI0OWvuQUciK_was7XTSHBQA17Go_7c5n03X8JBUReaDkJaS6IrDklQsUIh71I2SzCWi8MtVJdmlkNhfMuTty9O5tytz_/s320/228414_277855602330441_1771682525_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-64495082023915028212012-12-14T16:02:00.000-08:002012-12-25T09:06:37.143-08:00EQUABLE PARENTAL RIGHTS vs BEHAVOURAL MODIFICATION an observation<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
EQUABLE PARENTAL RIGHTS vs BEHAVOURAL MODIFICATION an
observation </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>‘To modify behavior, good behavior must be reinforced and poor behavior
must be punished.</i> <i>The fundamentals of
behavior modification can be used to increase desired behaviors in any individual,
regardless of functional level. For example, an individual who wants to quit
smoking cigarettes, or a parent who wants her child to consistently make the
bed, may use behavioral techniques to help achieve those goals.’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
THE WAY FAMILY COURT WORKS fastrack</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 10 stages of applying for custody guardianship access
through the family in-camera judicial system.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
First you will stand alone in court wholly
ignored.<br />
Second you will be told to sit down and to keep
quite.<br />
Third muttering will be heard then an
adjournment will be announced.<br />
Fourth a local ‘social workers’ report is
ordered re: your suitability as an ex-partner. Not as you will ‘think’ your
suitability as an equal parent. <br />
Fifth you will be ordered to come back in three
months and attend an anger management course for your own good.<br />
Sixth you will attend the ‘local’ court-approved*
Neuro-Linguistic Programming Hypnotist. <br />
Seven you will receive a tummy-tickle for good
behaviour and not be given a reach around for bad behaviour.<br />
Eight your so-called psychological report will
be read out in court three months later.<br />
Nine everyone will burst out sniggering oblivious
you will listen intently to this quasi-psychological jargon all the while observing
the ‘what did I tell you look’ on your X’s face.<br />
Ten you will be told to come back in three
months. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>See Change Practice* </b>Coaching
versus Counseling</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Counseling pays a lot of attention to a perceived ‘problem’
in a person’s life and focuses on the effect of the past on the present – on
the event which has caused you to feel the way you do about yourself and life
at present and about resolving your feelings with the tragedy or trauma.
Coaching differs from counseling in that the focus is more on finding
solutions, the here and now and on the future rather than dwelling on the past.
Because of this goals and behavioural patterns tend to come more under the
spotlight. Also, in coaching there is a more equal balance of power between the
coach and their client than would appear usual in a patient/therapist relationship.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many coaches, including ourselves use NLP to assist their
clients make the changes they desire. Neuro-Linguistic Programming provides a
tool-box of techniques which enable people to make these changes easily and
rapidly.<br />
<br />
Maurice Kelly and Berni McGuill (See Change Partners) are accredited Family Mediators (Friarylaw), certified CMA Life Coaches and NLP Master Practitioners (Certified by Dr. Richard Bandler)* with backgrounds in Sport and Social Care respectively.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Dr. Richard Bandler*</b>
"The effectiveness of my Strategic Mind Messaging™ sessions increases
significantly when combined with the augmented light and sound technology of
BrainFit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Richard Bandler</i>,
co-developer of NLP, also known as Neuro-Linguistic Programming, conducts NLP
seminars, NLP workshops, and NLP training seminars internationally. He
continually develops new human change technologies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Richard Bandler's</i>
seminars & workshops include Neuro-Hypnotic Repatterning™, Design Human
Engineering®, Persuasion Engineering®, Personal Enhancement, Charisma
Enhancement®, Hypnosis, and others.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Description<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neurolinguistic programming (NLP) is aimed at enhancing the
healing process by changing the conscious and subconscious beliefs of patients
about themselves, their illnesses, and the world. These limiting beliefs are
"reprogrammed" using a variety of techniques drawn from other
disciplines including hypnotherapy and psychotherapy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Origins<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
NLP was originally developed during the early 1970s by
linguistics professor John Grinder and psychology and mathematics student
Richard Bandler, both of the <st1:placetype w:st="on">University</st1:placetype>
of <st1:placename w:st="on">California</st1:placename> at <st1:city w:st="on">Santa Cruz</st1:city>. Studying the well-known
psychotherapist Virginia Satir, the hypnotherapist Milton Erickson, the
anthropologist Gregory Bateson, and others whom they considered "charismatic
superstars" in their fields, Grinder and Bandler identified psychological,
linguistic and behavioral characteristics that they said contributed to the
greatness of these individuals.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Research and general
acceptance<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although some physicians and mental health practitioners
employ principles of neurolinguistic programming, the field is generally
considered outside of mainstream medical practice and academic thinking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Precautions<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
NLP is particularly popular in the self-improvement and
career-development fields, and some trainers and practitioners have little
experience in its use for healing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Neurolinguistic
programming,<o:p></o:p></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A complementary therapeutic strategy based on the premise that
thought is a representation of sensory experience and that behavior can be
modified to achieve a desired result by changing the patient's thought patterns
and mental strategies to give the patient more choices in problem solving. It
is used for behavior modification and the management of psychosomatic disorders
and stress.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Mosby's Medical Dictionary,
8th edition. © 2009, Elsevier.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">© Various electronic sources</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6iO9sYNEhiHIx4Cw9a91WalX8AgXPqe3xWkGVeieOaA7tQIUdaUOJL5asVTL96q4U2Auql5E6xgVigzKGSYRlVSO6AP2o5UEiIgO8vos6neSu_ZfxhviVPGMZV-VdDoz8eKlEiL8OABl/s1600/old-hypnosis-advertisements-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw6iO9sYNEhiHIx4Cw9a91WalX8AgXPqe3xWkGVeieOaA7tQIUdaUOJL5asVTL96q4U2Auql5E6xgVigzKGSYRlVSO6AP2o5UEiIgO8vos6neSu_ZfxhviVPGMZV-VdDoz8eKlEiL8OABl/s1600/old-hypnosis-advertisements-1.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh an
observation 2012</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><a href="http://www.richardbandler.com/" target="_blank">Dr. Richard Bandler Co-Founder of Neuro-Linguistic Programming</a></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><a href="http://www.seechangepractice.com/aboutus.html" target="_blank">Maurice Kelly and Berni McGuill See Change Partners</a></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br /><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-10092412128834608372012-12-06T03:50:00.001-08:002012-12-06T03:50:50.396-08:00Eald is þes eorðsele under actreo ergo an old earth cell beneath an oak tree<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Eald is þes eorðsele under actreo ergo an old earth cell
beneath an oak tree </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Ic þis giedd wrece bi
me ful geomorre, minre sylfre sið. Ic þæt secgan mæg hwæt ic yrmþa gebad siþþan
ic up [a]weox, niwes oþþe ealdes, no ma þonne nu; a ic wite wonn minra wræcsiþa.
<span style="font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 9.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Anonymous 960-990 AD<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In a thousand years nothing has
changed. The human condition remains the same. I live alone not through choice
but by familial decree. Exiled in kinship I walk the streets alone. In sadness
I sing of myself now longer accessed of neither hill nor headland in
guardianship of the tribal seas. The Sun that I traverse is infinite and leads
full circle far beyond the grave. Such isolation derived of stone once borne by
water etched now with exhalation tormented further; fore-sworn as inherent of
sin. The hermit will succumb to those entreaties, of state, of church and
contemplate 'err long into the dark and frozen light of your encapsulated dawn.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The iron fashioned by the artisan
prevails in torment of this fragile assemblage of soul the exclusion of which
is then made complete. The gavel strikes. The chains embrace. The deed
completes. I lay down my weary head. The phantasmal at the feast. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The hallowed walls of which we
speak consumed. Blue chromaticity of light. Bereft of cosmic time. Of wintered
fire. Denied the ritual of life banished, silenced; the earthworm tutored in
speech is then struck dumb. However; the
erstwhile maggot pristine in silvered Armor though baited on hook will demand
its payment in full. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I seek out only the pagan
traveler of northern waters sailed with striped cloth and tempestuous wind in
search of clan devoid of ice-flow, flood and encroaching plurality.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The dark age falls upon <st1:city w:st="on">Rome</st1:city> once more, banished,
surplus to requirement of heaven and/or hell.
Memory at odds with tradition full circle regains balance and fortitude
of renewed beginnings. The golden age of enlightenment spews forth nacreous
indulgence of a truth. A truth long harbored in mind and soul albeit obscured
by mist and ritual in appeasement of your chosen messiah. Freedom speaks of
struggle, of tortured body, of sin, of corporeal regret; but neither of word
nor deed. The gilded sword sacrosanct fired with steel to cleave the unjust
without compassion is told a lie in the hands of the pilgrim. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The pilgrim in search of a truth.
Innate truths fundamental to human existence denied by its prefabrication of
civilization proved alien by the shadow mongers in dominance of control. The
barricade has small purpose in barbed-wire, in surveillance, in soulful
retreat, as the hoards amass to defend the gates of hell. I turn my achromatic
hide toward the blinding Sun to endure the energies of rebirth survived of
destruction and disease. Transmogrified into being by your callous thought and misrepresentations of my progeny. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The slave market thus thrives
become commodity you endure in darkness become afraid at the thought of
crucifixion and will acquiesce with outstretched palms. The children have gone
trafficked then as now in search of Caesars coin and its amazement. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
We are told this is the way of
light. That we should live in a truth. A truth not of our own making. A truth
not of knowledge. A truth compiled in covert diligence of others. Beset as
before and ordered to conclusion on foreign made shore. I attest my trials now
confessed. The warlord thus thrives. I among them rejoice in blood, skin and
bone; but not upon your wounded flesh in defense of a truth. The barbarian is
remained content within on prospect of the dawn. The myriad loves made more
tangible in procreation equally sired without regret. The gathering of souls,
of ritual, of slaughter, of opulence, of sharing, of defense, of tribe, of
life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjmDyR7ltNyz2EosM_p5u9v6fRDCUGtzxQw2g-ZoUBYEWnv95LiWLFbwaryfH6nCmvcifyAKZ8btzxB36KwBdBw6lPcQaU77uI8YXlyT6PPg-yokbDwgWK-xJ89YDLANEo_XlblbEvFvm/s1600/528695_213277122121623_1602380139_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMjmDyR7ltNyz2EosM_p5u9v6fRDCUGtzxQw2g-ZoUBYEWnv95LiWLFbwaryfH6nCmvcifyAKZ8btzxB36KwBdBw6lPcQaU77uI8YXlyT6PPg-yokbDwgWK-xJ89YDLANEo_XlblbEvFvm/s320/528695_213277122121623_1602380139_n.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 10.5pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><br />©
Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 07 December 2012</span><br /> </div>
Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-61037372747268419102012-11-29T15:00:00.000-08:002013-06-08T04:24:05.139-07:00On Why? alternative-media is worse than state-media because with few exceptions IT is Shite<br />
In the new
golden age of digital-enlightenment the quest for knowledge and/or a
truth continues on much like the Star-ship enterprise replete with
Klingon postiche that can end only in your reality beyond the Stars?
And/or below ground zero. Energy that exists throughout all your
lifetime's once self-activated that is and not as is presupposed
released by the arrival of complex Messiah's of legends told; now
long passed into childhood-histories.<br />
<br />
I listen. I
observe. I say often to the adjacent-wall albeit with tackiness in
flux “fuck! me are these people brain-dead or what?” whilst
surfing the latest state-alternative mass-medium radio-broadcast. The
wall prefers no-comment in this equation but in tandem with the
ceiling which I am allegedly often to be found dancing upon both look
at me with disdain. But no bother you get used to an empty room when
you are as insane as I am.<br />
<br />
Can we?
Could we? Would we? Then can I? Could I? Would I? Then can you! Could
you! Would you! Hammers and/or nails thus fly hither agus thither in
the true and uncertain hope that this one is the big one. Climbing
down from my divine designer hand-made blood-stained wooden-iron
inverted-cross which coincidentally cost me far in excess of thirteen
in number pieces of sterling-silver and/or a shilling via the King.
Thereupon; I now call upon my humanoid-Munchkins to let me explain
further the mysteries of the alphabet.<br />
<br />
The singular
word communication becomes lost in translation as does the colloquial
word of *fart when applied in conversation and/or action particularly
so in public areas. The singular word of comment on the other hand
will unleash a veritable flood gate of mindless greeting to one
another; totally at odds with the broadcast intention of empowering
their 'listener-ship'?<br />
<br />
The answer
to this half-remarkable question of what I hear most vocally
expressed is the desire for an alternative communication that can be
accessed by them to be held in 'proper' contention of
state-proliferation of propaganda at a cost of zillions; allied with
political-fiscal-religious-personality covert-agenda and that is the
relatively inexpensive method of internet.
<br />
<br />
So what is
it then that I am listening to? I ask myself. Is it not
alternative-media as they so fervently desire already set before
them. Can we? Could we? Would we? Conjoined phrases so often
expressed within the realm of political schoolyards when a child and
yet still promulgate of their supposed maturity into adult
citizenship.<br />
<br />
Fastrack:
Citizens Arise? You now hold the creative expertise, the
technological means, the virtual World @ your finger-tips. What more
of need is required. Ergo. Listen* thereby Communicate*<br />
<br />
Alternatively
await the second-coming. Crucifixion to the right. Next?<br />
<br />
Legend ***<br />
<br />
*com·mu·ni·cate
(k-myn-kt)<br />
<br />
v.
com·mu·ni·cat·ed, com·mu·ni·cat·ing, com·mu·ni·cates
<br />
<br />
v.tr.<br />
<br />
1. a. To
convey information about; make known; impart: communicated his views
to our office.
<br />
<br />
b. To reveal
clearly; manifest: Her disapproval communicated itself in her frown.<br />
<br />
2. To spread
(a disease, for example) to others; transmit: a carrier who
communicated typhus.<br />
<br />
v.intr.<br />
<br />
1. To have
an interchange, as of ideas.<br />
<br />
2. To
express oneself in such a way that one is readily and clearly
understood: "That ability to communicate was strange in a man
given to long, awkward silences" (Anthony Lewis).<br />
<br />
3.
Ecclesiastical To receive Communion.<br />
<br />
4. To be
connected, one with another: apartments that communicate.<br />
<br />
[Latin
commnicre, commnict-, from commnis, common; see mei-1 in
Indo-European roots.]<br />
<br />
*lis·ten
(lsn)<br />
<br />
intr.v.
lis·tened, lis·ten·ing, lis·tens
<br />
<br />
1. To make
an effort to hear something: listen to the radio; listening for the
bell.<br />
<br />
2. To pay
attention; heed: "She encouraged me to listen carefully to what
country people called mother wit" (Maya Angelou).<br />
<br />
n. An act of
listening: Would you like to give the CD a listen before buying it?<br />
<br />
Phrasal
Verb: listen in<br />
<br />
1. To listen
to a conversation between others; eavesdrop.<br />
<br />
2. To tune
in and listen to a broadcast.<br />
<br />
[Middle
English listenen, alteration (influenced by listen, to list, listen;
see list4) of Old English hlysnan; see kleu- in Indo-European roots.]<br />
<br />
listen·er
n.<br />
<br />
*fart (färt)
Vulgar Slang
<br />
<br />
intr.v.
fart·ed, fart·ing, farts
<br />
<br />
To expel
intestinal gas through the anus; break wind.<br />
<br />
n.<br />
<br />
1. An often
audible discharge of intestinal gas.<br />
<br />
2. An
annoying or foolish person.<br />
<br />
Phrasal
Verb: fart around To fool around; fritter time away.<br />
<br />
[Middle
English farten, from Old English *feortan; see perd- in Indo-European
roots.]
<br />
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 29 November 2012</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span><br />
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Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-14259701491044931332012-11-24T03:39:00.000-08:002012-11-24T03:39:08.661-08:00In the beginning was the word and the word was Alienation
In the
beginning was the word and the word was <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Alienation</span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>''Parental
Alienation is defined as the deliberate attempt by one parent to
distance his/her children from the other parent. A parent who has
been alienated from his/her child will continue to pursue a
relationship with the child. The parent will attempt to communicate
on a regular basis, will send emails and cards. The same parent will
use the court system to fight the alienating parent and retain their
legal rights to a relationship with their child. The alienated parent
is not a parent who gives up or gives in.'</i></span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">In contemporary society when the concept of personal
relationship fails in opposition to the two partners involved; it
becomes bankrupt as any fiscal-business one cares to name devoid of
all positive emotion and/or singular regret. However; it no longer
being a joint venture the warring factions eventually disengage and
as the animal crawl away into familial comfort, their continued
interference and self-justification of event thus exposed. The
belligerent generally foreswore in all innocence their testament to
basically anyone that will listen that they did all they could to
maintain the relationship to a point beyond even that of human
endurance.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The injured party will attest no more to the adage
“Whatever happens between you and me. I will never stop you seeing
the children.” The reverse of this lackluster sentiment becomes
immediately apparent soon as one finds ones arse landed on the stone
cold streets outside your once harmonious rural, urban and/or city
conurbation. The law does not apply in such circumstance. The
deliberate expulsion of one partner over another simply depends on
gender. The first to enact, most likely a female, a personalized
summary-eviction from the home is the one that gets to stay and to
get away with this anomaly of human-kind. All one has to say to
obtain support for ones action is that you are now made afraid by
your actions against the person you just lobbed out on to the wintery
streets.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">It is as though a failed personal relationship rests
easier in the mind of society to be publicly put forward as a
criminal offence in itself. When interpersonal communication is lost
the process further inhibited by inequitable law and human-right of
the alienated parent to continue on fully involved with the lives of
their children; as they have done equally so since the day the
children were born is lost. The belligerent carry on their life as
though nothing has changed and continue on self-assured that the
expelled parent will eventually 'go-away' as in a magic-trick; or
perhaps die from some unimaginable disease you would not wish upon
your former mother-in-law?</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Alienated parent spends their waking hours devising
ways with which to communicate their undying love to their children.
Devising ways that are always rejected by the belligerent parent be
they a simple 13<sup>th</sup> and/or 16<sup>th</sup> birthday card
marked return to sender and/or a notice on face-book in a sad yet
Soulful attempt at 'reaching-out' across the great digital-divide.
The list of rejections is endless to fastrak simply imagine your own
course of action if and when you are found in similar circumstance. </span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Alienated parent will traverse the town-scape in
the vain and uncertain hope they may catch a glimpse of their
offspring albeit at a distance; so as not to further 'outrage' the
belligerent parent. They may sit on a bench for hours and not even in
the right place nor at the right time because of the ensuing
bully-boy tactics of the local garda; when it be reported by a
'third-party' you are sat 'illegally' on a public-bench watching your
life go down the proverbial toilet or simply walking down the street.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Alienated parent will endure all that is aimed at
them even to the point of imprisonment to demonstrate to the world
at large their unique love for their children. There can be no
justice in the family-court because of its inequity. How can justice
be seen to be done in-camera law when there is no law to protect the
constitutional and human rights of the unmarried parent in society;
regardless of gender and/or origination of apportioned blame at the
initial downfall.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Alienated parent will continually ask the question
“What I have I done wrong?” and often wonder who it is that is
'actually' being abused by this unresolved attempt by the belligerent
parent to alienate the other poor sop who fell for it all; including
the machinations of state-judiciary. Conversely the belligerent
parent need say nothing other than words in the negative without
recourse as to meaning to affect complete alienation of the other.
Ergo in the eyes of vested familial third-party interest and/or
so-called family law, mediation service will prove a complete lack of
resolve in the 'best interests of the child'. And furthermore as it
so often turns out to be in reality resolved only in the 'best
interests of the belligerent parent' resulting in complete and total
alienation of the other.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The belligerent parent does not 'move-on' they remain
stagnant, silent, cowered, hidden in replication of event “They did
this that and the other to me” “They frighten me” They are
aggressive” They are violent” They are abusive” They hate the
family cat” therefore I wised-up and threw my partner out. And
somehow along the way the children agreed with me that it was the
'best course of action' in my circumstance.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The belligerent parent need not prove anything at all
simply state the 'facts' in spoken, written and/or in unspoken
body-language terms; all is alleged, all is made vulnerable in
interpretation, all is assumed to be a true and sworn accurate
account of unproven event. A tear here, a tremble there and Bob's
your uncle all is done and dusted; the silenced subsequently cannot
speak; cancerous voice-box or no.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The belligerent parent maintains their requirement to
continue on the necessity of public support and justification of
their privatized 'winter of discontent' devised solely to afford
social acceptance of the original action of summary expulsion from an
alleged former happy family-home of the now alienated parent; made
wholly surplus to that requirement. </span></div>
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">The Alienated parent is remained with just the one
option. An inviolable option. The continuing love of their children.
A love never faltered. A love freely offered since conception. A love
proven innate. A love not for the bargaining within the realm of
state-judiciary, personalized antipathy and the process of letting go
of failed adult-relationship. Adult relationship more normally based
upon fiscal-transaction, social-standing, vainglory, egocentricity,
emotional-blackmail, learnt-behaviours passed down by generational
fuck-ups of the 'previous' parental-kind.</span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">When I was a kid I said. “ We all know what Dad did
Ma' but what did you do?”</span></div>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" lang="en-US" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: small;">more to follow '<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>The
alienated parent is not a parent who gives up or gives in.'</i></span></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">
The Misery Industry 2012<br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span></span>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-73990917461077376652012-11-21T14:31:00.001-08:002012-11-21T14:31:32.242-08:00Do solo Mammona cogitant, quorum Deus est sacculus
In the
beginning was the word and the word was jurisprudence ~ Do solo
Mammona cogitant, quorum Deus est sacculus<br />
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
In
contemporary society those enabled with judicial power over the
individual live out their one existence embroiled in fiscal
acquisition therefore luxury lifestyle that one may more easily
attest to when found the good citizen wholly resident of Fairyland.
Jurisprudence on the other hand fails miserably when that vague
concept of justice is visually required by the people to be of
paramount importance to the successful conclusion of right over
wrong; post-event by all members of that society. Particularly so in
any or all democratic decision making process in search of a truth
but not confined solely to that singular auspices required in law but
to all dealings in matters of state government on behalf of its
citizenry.</div>
<br />
Today I was
offered a deal. As many of you well know I don't deal. I do not serve
the Laws of Mammon. I do not succumb to the highest-bidder regardless
of origination. Conversely as is more probable in the finality of a
terminally ill cancer patient such as myself. When you ain't got
nothing. You ain't got nothing to lose ergo only dignity. I will not
go into the details of the proffered deal suffice to say not one of
my accusers were arsed to turn up at the courthouse for a second
time. The most probable reason being that they were earlier
misinformed that I would accept an offer from the state to plead
erroneously in guilt thus eliminating all requirement by that state
to prove beyond all reasonable doubt; that I am in-fact to be found
innocent not simply on a basis of morality but under the considered
protection of lawful legislation of the Criminal Law (Defence and the
Dwelling) Act 2011.<br />
<br />
Inasmuch
"The Act allows for the use of such force as is reasonable in
the circumstances, to protect people in the dwelling from assault, to
protect property, to prevent the commission of a crime, or to make a
lawful arrest. The Act also extends the protections it contains to
the curtilage of the dwelling, it explicitly provides that a person
is not under an obligation to retreat from their home when subject to
an intrusion in their home and provides that a person who uses
reasonable force, as provided for in the Act, cannot be sued for
damages by a burglar and will not be guilty of an offence."<br />
<br />
One might
suppose in all naivety one may see ones accusers stood before them in
open court for all the world to witness such anomaly in search of a
truth. Opinion is insufficient as is collaboration and/or the
subsequent altering of ones statement of sworn evidence brought
before the court as truthful evidence to affirm guilt. The accusers
in this equation have been summarily assumed correct without any
lawful examination or investigation of their written verbalized
statements. The adage “Innocent until proven guilty” equally does
not apply. I as the accused is automatically without reservation
deemed to be the belligerent in this covert discourse of dealership.<br />
<br />
Plead guilty
and the state will be relieved at the very least from its fiscal
burden to stand in defense of a truth embodied in written
constitution and replicate in judicial civil and criminal laws laid
down in soulful protection of all the peoples of this one unique
Republic of Ireland. I walked away from the courthouse in the company
of friends. Had lunch in 23 Seats connected back into the realities
via Soup and Soulful conversation. I looked across the emptied street
the glass and steel recalled the morning affair. A dead building
devoid of energy. Peopled only by ghosts and shadow-mongers done with
barter and dealings. They set about the inner-workings of the
machine. Oil on cog with which to grind exceedingly small at the
morrows toil and wholly confirmed the existence of and the further
exposure of The Misery Industry<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">©
</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Jeffrey Kelly
agus Conor Dignam</span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Thus
empowered I then realized the notion that I had in fact not only won
the day. Furthermore; the ensuing outfought battle but had in reality
won this War of Attrition by state against my sovereign person to
obtain my enduring Silence and of those others in the restoration of
peace within both physical and Spiritual worlds. </span></div>
<br />
“I stand
alone at the cross-roads dependent of no-one. We each must choose our
one path. There is only one Road. There is only one direction home
beyond the Stars. Beyond the Sun. Beyond the Moon. Beyond the Skies.
Beyond the Fears. Beyond the Tears. Beyond the Years. That belong
only to you through collaboration once begun in death. Advent in
celebration of the life now expectant.”<br />
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
© <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"></span>The Misery Industry <span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Jeffrey Kelly agus Conor Dignam 2012</span></div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div align="JUSTIFY" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">Séafra Ó Ceallaigh November 21</span><span style="font-size: small;"><sup><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">st</span></sup><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;">2012</span></span></div>
Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-40467742045191541312012-11-19T05:06:00.000-08:002012-11-19T05:11:31.516-08:00It begins as stories often do. In the beginning was the word and the word was death. RIP<br />
<div align="CENTER" lang="en-US" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>"Our
Independence must be had at all hazards. If the men of property will
not support us they must Fall. We can Support Ourselves by the aid of
that numerous and respectable class of the community the men of no
property."</i></span><i> </i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-style: normal;">Theobald
Wolfe Tone 1763-1798 agus George Harold Formby 1798-2016 </span></span>
</div>
<br />
I went on
line this morning and was made sick to my stomach by the images
portraying the inglorious end of the lives of our children not yet
begun. It matters not the geographical location nor the origination
of their collective demise that should trouble the heart, mind and/or
soul of every other being on this singular rock hurtling through time
and space; we choose to call our Mother-Earth. What should bother us
as a so-called self-proclaimed human species is that the images now
exist but not so the infants thus immortalized in photographic
imagery. today.
<br />
<br />
For too long
now the state of Israel has played the holocaust-card to it's extreme
advantage; prostituting itself as the beggar would devoid of all
self-respect but in Israel’s case holding outstretched and bloodied
palms for arms and ammunition rather than alms and sustenance of
self-survival. Borne of British colonial and illegal partition of
1949 much as that experienced by us as a sovereign nation albeit of
made disparate people's and further encroached upon the rightful
lands of Palestine and its environ; to the point of internationally
envisaged and condoned Genocide throughout Gaza, today.<br />
<br />
However; all
that 'nonsense' is now made history and becomes irrelevant in the
minds of the good citizens of the first Republic of Ireland in 2012.
No-one least of all my good-self wants to end up piled on a table
bereft of life and dignity unto death. Unlike the thousands of Irish
citizens, killed, injured, murdered, lost, imprisoned and still
forgotten just 8 klics from my y-ours front doors in Dundalk Co.
Louth Ireland over recent years; in the name of British Crown Forces
combined with covert intelligence force and its version of an
enforced Golden Dawn of Greek philosophy, today.<br />
<br />
But I
digress; no-one gives a shit about images of foreign dead children.
No-one gives a shit about indigenous sexually raped children. No-one
gives a shit our children now safely in the bloodied hands of
state-care. After all is said and done these are not y-our children
these children don't belong to anyone. These children are fair-game
to be stolen, let adrift, used as bi-products for the international
sex-industry that permeates every single strand of society; inclusive
of and notwithstanding holier-than-thou so-called modern European
'Catholic Ireland'.<br />
<br />
Ergo, what
will you protest via face-book and/or the streets today? The decade
delay of student-fees outside Peter Fitzpatrick’s office in town;
albeit with buses 'laid-on' from Dkit to the town center for the
privilege class of Mammies children ensconced there only by Euro
borrowed-monies? Or perhaps 'get on the streets' to protest the
living-conditions of some half-a-million unemployable citizens, their
families of children; in the run-up to a penniless Christmas? How
about the homeless dying on the wintered streets of any-town
Ireland.plc now that's always a good one to bleat on about at this
time of year.<br />
<br />
But whatever
you do don't re-post images of dead-children of Gaza it is not the
sort of behaviour to get a 'like' and/or a tummy-tickle via the
state; nor indeed stop a bullet in the head as you protest loudly at
a UK border post this morning stating politely “Fuck-off back to
Britannica”.<br />
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Now, is it?
Comrades.<br />
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Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-88804585392000640862011-12-09T19:28:00.001-08:002011-12-09T19:42:38.579-08:00My being home alone at Christmas has proved more bothersome to friends and colleagues than to myself<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I</span><span style="font-size: x-small;">ndependent 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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span></div>
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<span class="caption" style="font-size: x-small;">a reflection from the past</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-22868368131666261132011-12-05T18:34:00.001-08:002011-12-05T21:20:39.039-08:00The Traveller the Shaman and the King<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">Chapter 1 </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;">The Traveller the Shaman and the King © Séafra O’ Ceallaigh<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Alternatively, is truth no more in consequence of the journey we aspire to undertake?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I await your response.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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'.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘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.’</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">'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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">‘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?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">‘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?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘Indeed you’re Holiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not my intention to alarm you but to bring order over chaos in all matters pertaining to church, state and your Majesty.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">‘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.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘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.’</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘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.’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.’ </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.’ </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.’ </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.’</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">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’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘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.’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%;">‘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?’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">‘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.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: x-small; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">© Séafra O’ Ceallaigh extract early working draft 2009</span></div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-65078367694199353392011-12-05T18:29:00.001-08:002011-12-05T18:32:40.324-08:00Clan Ceallach ~ a prayer to the fallen<span style="font-size: x-small;">Tainted by the seven sorrows of indulgence, yet fortified by the word <br />You spoke of the farewell that inexorably went unheard. <br />No regrets now, as I hold you, lifeless in the warmth of my caress. <br />You turned, as I passed by distracted, intent only upon the task that lay ahead. <br />Your lips were filled with passion, as you spoke not of regret. <br />But of love and pain and sacrifice of that journey now begun. <br />I did not listen to your words nor did I, take notice of your pain. <br />As I walked so proudly by, my head held high with shame. <br />Amongst the flowers now you reach out, toward the gentle fall of early morning rain. <br />To the East, lay the whisperings of the death, that surely now must come. <br />But you, chose life and journeyed on, far beyond those western isle's. <br />Forever watchful now, as you wait so patiently to greet the rising Sun. <br />You walk amongst the chosen few in honour of those days. <br />Your words subscribed and chronicled, held high in our esteem. <br />The battle spent but not yet won, in memory of your deeds. <br />The clan bereft of solitude together we must sing. <br />Those joyfull hymns of yesterday in praise of mortal sin. <br />As we observe your sacrifice safe above from, mountain high. <br />You protect these borders of our world and save the sorrow and the blindness in our eyes. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2007</span>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-30955317046683528472011-12-05T18:16:00.001-08:002011-12-05T18:28:49.356-08:00Cúige Chonnacht 5,000 years ~ an observation<span style="font-size: x-small;">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? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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<sup>th</sup> 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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">During the summer months, I usually take my family back home, to the home-place as is said, in the county Mayo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span><br />
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<br />Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-39149531650449706642011-12-05T17:32:00.001-08:002011-12-05T17:41:40.111-08:00The Mark of Henry Cox<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Mark of Henry Cox <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">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.</i></span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>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.</span></span></div>
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<span></span><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span></span><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span></span><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span></span><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>T</span><span>he 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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span></span></span><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></span> </div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-63187667372552490942011-12-05T16:28:00.001-08:002011-12-05T21:43:51.176-08:00BULLYBOYS: This facebook Note is intended, as an adjunct to the posted video of Jonah Mowry<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Fastrack: Is Your Baby Gay? What If You Could Know? What If You Could Do Something About It? Friday, March 2, 2007</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><a href="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/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0066aa; font-size: x-small;">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/</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>'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!'</em> Stephen Murphy Chairman Dundalk Media Centre/Dundalk FM/Dundalk Baptist church 30th June 2010</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">'Dear Jeffrey...I, as Minister, have no role in the day to day operation of a Radio Station.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">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?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">But I digress;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Food for his Sheep by Stephen Murphy, The Undershepherd.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><em>'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!'</em> Pastor Stephen Murphy, Dundalk Baptist Church 12 March 2007</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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! </span><a href="http://www.msplinks.com/MDFodHRwOi8vd3d3LmFsYmVydG1vaGxlci5jb20vYmxvZy5waHA=" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0066aa; font-size: x-small;">http://www.albertmohler.com/blog.php</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Chairmen of the Board Stephen Murphy seated left</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Addendum: Teenage Mental Health: What helps and what hurts? A Report on the outcome of consultations with teenagers on mental health.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><a href="http://www.dohc.ie/publications/pdf/teen_mentalhealth.pdf?direct=1" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: #0066aa; font-size: x-small;">http://www.dohc.ie/publications/pdf/teen_mentalhealth.pdf?direct=1</span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.'</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Best of luck to all the Jonah Mowry's, so affected, around the unknown World.</span><br />
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><sup>th</sup></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> 2011.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">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.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-37515691562242899232011-12-05T16:22:00.001-08:002011-12-05T16:24:29.983-08:00Liberté, égalité, fraternité ~ empower yourself it is after all the 21st century mo chairde<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Theirony of a collective peoples finally having access to an independent means of digital communication is the lack of real-time communication, overall. The majority still deal with the old-order of communication. The idea that one is against 'something' serves only to further empower those empowered that are considered worthy of that empowerment by those disempowered who will find something to be 'against' to justify that empowerment given over by them to the empowered in the first place.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ergo the empowered take not a blind bit of notice of those they disempower. The only conceivable solution to this modern uncommunicative dilemma of communication is to simply by-pass the fuckers. Don't look for a deal, don't ask for a deal, don't do a deal and stop being afraid of any concept of self-empowerment.<br /><br />People will spend billions on the traditional postage stamp over the next few weeks; even though they may have the latest in digital hardware set right in front of them in the nefarious form of a lap and/or desk top. This brief observation on communication, however, has nothing at all to do with any form of traditional seasonal greeting card; it is about taking charge of one's own life before that of any other.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">No-one enjoys the prospect of 'getting into trouble' with a so-called, appropriate authority, indeed, once one has become the focus of state intention. They will assuredly be vacuumed into the machine, socially-engineered into rehabilitation at best where dictate allows or far worse be absorbed to uphold the status-quo by an overt use of welfare-cheque and/or covert promise of an end of sell by date lucrative civil-service, pension. <br /><br />But primarily they will be chewed-up and spat out like some distasteful tit-bit one wouldn't offer even to a homeless person begging and hungered on a capitol street. The road ahead lays open dependent only upon one's own endeavour to maintain its independence. Try turning away and walking toward the setting Sun for once in this short-life and in-so doing will no-longer be subject of the incredible demands of obedience toward those that were formally empowered to do so.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ignored and made inert as in the politics of the school-yard the bullies and the obese of societal advantage will dissipate and vaporize beyond reach of your unique existence. The old order is now vanquished by its vanities hurried and scurried by its collective failures they will abandon these arid shores without so much as a murmur of a now wintered discontent.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A new-order is evident the tide has ebbed the tangible barricades have fallen into neglected disrepair one only has to reach out ones hand in order to grasp the opportunity now made available to all beyond the next albeit digital horizon; Liberté, égalité, fraternité is a right nor an optional-extra made so by a new-found digital age of communication, designate of the 21st century and beyond.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">© Séafra Ó Ceallaigh December 1st 2011</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-43180062753923167002011-12-05T16:16:00.001-08:002011-12-05T16:21:34.726-08:00An Observation made during a sojourn at the exhibition of Mirabile Dictu by Jordi Forniés<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">I particularly enjoyed 'The Invention that changed the world' and 'Nine monsters that make me laugh' the monster to the right on the middle-row had me amused long before I read the legend, so described. The use of any superlative to attempt description of your unique vision through the auspices of 'painted words' would at best display a literary inadequacy on my part.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Moreover at best it would be deemed an injustice not only to the administrators of such excellence displayed but an insult to the humble author, and to my chagrin an interminable sanction by the gods would then haunt any hope of my continued existence at peace.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Dante's worlds, Beautiful storm, Cordoba and Lovers under the umbrella albeit when asked by Nicola I interpreted the ambiguous shape, to be found hidden in Lovers, as the upright torso of a headless-chicken?</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">However, quickly moving-on, the whole experience of my visit will stand-out in my mind as forever inspirational particularly in the use of the myriad mixed Medias. Shrill steel, thin-cardboard, a torn page from a cheap-notebook, gold-leaf embossed amongst tortured blood-red hues, the texture of the Suns and hand-rippled canvas surfaced in primordial blue-seas by the skilful artisan. That would suggest at first sight a corporeal fragility of interpretation that belied its underpinned discourse on human strengths and corresponding weaknesses.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>My mind now made enduring witness of a rare moment in my time and of your space unveiled by an innate ability made possible, when hand, eye and cerebral intention are co-ordinated thus thoughts made tangible; as</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span>only a true artist, can achieve in so-short a human life-span.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">As a species we are privileged, to have you walk amongst us, forever young in search of Cordoba and now chronicled in stone by a grateful and international clan of creative endeavours, combined. </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Many thanks to Nicola at the gallery for the soulful accompaniment she proffered to your exhibited works and erudite conversation throughout my sojourn whilst visiting the gallery. A+ </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh aka Jeffrey Kelly, Dundalk, Co Louth ROI</span></span></span></div>
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</span>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-70380475650532307872011-12-05T16:12:00.001-08:002011-12-05T16:15:28.454-08:00The Art of being made Homeless via President Higgins walking backwards to Christmas?<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">These 'properties' are in need of demolition with the traditional style 'bold dynamite' at the very least and their 'tenants' along with the legions of homeless ~ immediately re-housed in the myriad of empty, newly built and abandoned properties that now exist throughout the island of Ireland. Furthermore it is in my humblest of opinions ~ an outright insult to those peoples forced by an ethically inert society to 'exist' in such 'housing' conditions by that opportunistic 'gang-land' of owners concerned only with their continued ownerships.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">These tumble-down properties once more rightly referred to as 'fixer-upper' opportunities; as glibly described by bandit auctioneers in the more affluent of Irish Times. Such propagandas aimed solely at equally corrupt property-developers via an in-house propaganda-machine to grab the last 'fast-buck' remaining in the people's already purloined back pockets and emptied state coffer? </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">It beggars the mind that these criminal landlords presiding over such modern European Ghetto's deemed unfit for 'human-consumption' is approved by the Department of Social Protection and 'get away' to the nearest state owned banking-house of ill-repute with the ill-gotten gains of this ultimate of crime of inhumanity.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rather than is the authors nonsensical contention that purports in essence to further division of people, in that "Working tenants can now effectively be outbid by welfare tenants, who have no incentive to haggle, in most parts of the country." </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Addendum: with almost a half-million unemployable citizens in the state of which I suspect are the majority of the 97,000 recipients now dependent of woefully inadequate rent supplements. Ergo an inadequacy without any option to view contemporary life via Rose-tinted, glasses, as must the author of this literary diatribe, now sport in wrongful perception of those 'welfare tenants' entrenched and made impotent by design in societal disadvantage. </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">There is no 'opportunity to achieve a triple-win by reducing rent supplement' as suggested in this article; being home-less, voice-less and choice-less which can be no triple-win at all by anyone renting their basic constitutional right to a decent home. </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Unless of course one is occupying ones 'home' over two floors' on the North Circular Road in Dublin devoid of imprisonment and/or rent allowance in 1 of 17 bed-sits; being self-described as a 'Working tenant' who generally would <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>not qualify for a rent supplement. </span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Furthermore; a 'Working tenant' one who is firmly ensconced as an 'Irish economist' at Oxford University and 'running' what can only be a 'self-invested and self-interested' Economic Research unit at </span><span style="color: #0066aa; font-size: x-small;">Daft.ie</span></span></span><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> ~ now, self-described, as ~ those inveterate purveyors on-line, modern urban tenement, auctioneering?</span></span></span></div>
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<span></span><span><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="font-size: x-small;">©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-45985745478915555772011-12-05T16:11:00.001-08:002011-12-05T16:11:45.857-08:00The art of Irish state elitism vs. pecuniary disadvantage of the citizen artist<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">President Michael D Higgins used his inauguration to deliver a speech which fused his two driving passions into a stirring vision of the Ireland he wishes to preside over. It would be a nation where the "seedbed of creativity" not only enriched our culture but also society and even the economy. The new President praised Irish efforts in the realms of progressive idealism and artistic imagination, speaking of "our humanitarian, peace-building and human rights work", in the same breath as those creative achievements which have "helped us cope with adversity, soothed the very pain which they describe so well, and opened the space for new possibilities". ©The Irish Times - Friday, November 18, 2011.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">It is my contention therefore that Ireland PLC of whom the President refers to in this instance and its adherents do not profess to an indigenous disorder of personality that permeates the very fabric of contemporary society. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only the illusionists within that realm of elitist art perceived, as industry and a co-joined brown-envelope culture emanate of body-politic will continue to exist in the so-called 'realms of progressive idealism and artistic imagination' of today.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Reference is often made to a golden era in which the island of Ireland had achieved the status of haven if not heaven itself. A land inhabited of Saints, Scholars, Artists and Musicians amid a joyous peasant-class dancing somewhat erratically at the crossroads whilst overtly drunk, gratefully picking turf in-tune to a fascistic ideal of rural-clericalism and/or failing that wholesale lining-up at the national harbours.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>The fondness and love of the nation's children was an international by-word for generations amongst those who remained silent of endemic societal, institutional and clerical maltreatment of our youth until exposed by a handful of ordinary, clerical, literary and artistic citizens combined. Most notably the likes of author Paddy Doyle, Fr McGerard McGinnity and Andrew Madden, Mannix Flynn and Colm O'Gorman to name but the illustrious few citizens prepared to speak-out against the monstrous crimes of state and church combined; during that golden era and long since that</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> '</span><span>helped us cope with adversity, soothed the very pain which they describe so well?' But unfortunately to this very day their individual efforts have not 'opened the space for new possibilities.' Nor has the state addressed the on-going problematic of child abuse in any meaningful way that will bring forward to eradicate once and for all the circumstance that allows for the continuance of denial such as that afforded by them to 'The Forgotten Maggie's' et ali.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">No indeed, the state now relies upon chronology and communal forgetfulness to assuage the crimes of the hidden-past. Despite the plethora of recent exposure of criminality at tribunal no law can be imposed retrospectively ergo the majority of clerical, judicial and social paedophiles and artistic pederasts and child pornographers continue to walk free aided by fiscal compensations in maintenance of residual reputation, religious and state educational pensions and/or arts grant. So to the multitude of so-called white-collared criminals and corrupt politicians will happily live out their existences with state-aid of millions upon millions of borrowed European monies in the given form of state pension.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>The irony of those words used in general by President Michael D Higgins in his inauguration speech that of creativity, culture, society, economy and more particularly phrases such as progressive idealism and artistic imagination, our humanitarian, peace-building and human rights work and any action to secure those possibilities were sadly lacking throughout Michael D Higgins former political career. Especially so, during his tenure in the government of the 23rd Government of Ireland 12 January 1993 – 15 December 1994 formed by Fianna Fáil and the Labour Party; as</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span>Minister for Arts, Culture and the Gaeltacht. Nor his continued presence as Minister for Arts, Culture and the Gaeltacht <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in the 24th Government of Ireland 15 December 1994 – 26 June 1997 this time formed by Fine Gael, the Labour Party and Democratic Left.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>A 'newly formed government' albeit following a number of scandals of 1994, particularly over the beef industry and the alleged mishandling of the prosecution of the clerical paedophile *Father Brendan Smyth. The Labour Party left the 23rd government and, after negotiations, formed the 24th government known as the Rainbow Coalition. Although the term</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span>Rainbow Coalition originally referred to a proposed coalition of Fine Gael, the Labour Party and the Progressive Democrats with Fine Gael and Democratic Left.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">This was the first time in Irish political history that a party had left a governing coalition and gone into government with opposition parties without first holding a general election.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Father Brendan Smyth 8 June 1927 – 22 August 1997 was a Catholic priest who became notorious as a child molester, using his position in the Church to obtain access to his victims. During a period of over 40 years, Smyth sexually abused and indecently assaulted over 100 children in parishes in Belfast, Dublin and the United States. Controversy surrounding this case brought about the downfall of the government of Ireland in December 1994.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Therefore in the light of recent history as the man himself said 'in the same breath as those creative achievements which have "helped us cope with adversity, soothed the very pain which they describe so well, and opened the space for new possibilities" will equally be made redundant in the present 'Rainbow Coalition' of Fine Gael and the Labour Party 2011.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Regardless of any and/or all words President Michael D Higgins used in his inauguration 'to deliver a speech which fused his two driving passions into a stirring vision of the Ireland he wishes to preside over but without one word of his inglorious unstirred visions of his and our collective past?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>Addendum: and what of the pecuniary disadvantage of the citizen artist? Well</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span>the citizen artist, as ever, will just simply, keep on, keeping on up until THE END; without any elitist state endorsed fiscal pot in which to piss.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span></span></div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-40645599141180538312011-12-05T16:09:00.001-08:002011-12-05T17:27:10.364-08:00The journeyman ~ in respect of thefrog<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Where are you now that you are gone? I look beyond the shadows of night falling and hear your voice of long ago; you spoke well into the day of the vanities and our cerebral distress. I did not understand you then and I do not understand you now. I looked askance at the long bench were you were seated in the Citadel much to my chagrin; as poet and judgement maker spoke loud an inconsistent deliberation in favour of the ensuing night. The dreams of tomorrow lay dissipated by inaction on the part of the misguided lover; now made cuckold of inherent knowledge and desire of the inborn child.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">I loved you then and I love you now. Only the terms of engagement have altered the course it naturally undertook without consideration of the past and most likely its undisturbed indifference. The cherry-blossom cannot comfort an aged soul by one so young in existence and yet made old by the consequence of my unjust ignorance. I look to the Sun but decipher only the moon-shadows as I wander this solitary path of retribution. Time cannot heal for there is no time in which to compensate for the ruination of our combined allegiance.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">The clock ticks and the world will turn away from the notion of settlement and resolve. The friend of yesterday is turned stranger lost amid the bog lands held dear by Atlantic shore and ancestry, alike. I turn to face the dawn. The multitude has departed long since abandoned by the sadness and the tears of the clown. The road ahead though defined as perilous by those that understand less about the journey once undertaken in that age where solitude and forgiveness would deny our soulful future devoid of retribution. To live alone becomes the consequence of injustice to the eyes of the blinded beggar.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">My words fail because of the inexactness of the crime. I acknowledge the ghost of our indifference that was laid prematurely upon your cindered path. I knew not even of my own misunderstanding of the truth lay dormant beyond a cyclic consequence of my time but not of yours. A true love can only begotten by understanding and compassion on the part of the delinquent made so enforced by hatred and loathing of self. I began the journey with belief in the resurrection; yet to pass. I remain at the cross-road in the moonlight though bright is shrouded once again by the wintered mist.</span><br />
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</div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-39395937693747061532011-12-05T16:06:00.001-08:002011-12-05T16:08:27.105-08:00Ireland a beautiful island bereft of its soul peopled only by ghosts and shadow-mongers<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span>One thing that is now proven by lack of performance in Irish politics generally and more particularly those incumbent of governmental and state rule post-election 2011; is that no-one knows their arse from a traditional fiddler's elbow. The majority of citizens as we the great un-washed electorate have become affectionately known by a vote hungry elite pre-election carry on regardless knowing that it will all end in tears; as is the norm in</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span>Irish politics generally and more particularly those incumbent of governmental and state rule post-election of any date, year, decade and/or century.</span><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The spinning-wheel of bad fortune will then having turned full-circle rest once again in the sweated palms of whosoever was in opposition the previous time on the political merry-go-round of the so-called democratic Republic of Ireland. A new breed will have arisen; all the young bucks from a previous generation of political aspirants will have developed to pick up the embryonic burden of formulating yet one more nouveau government; that will lead only to the people's collective ruin and societal chagrin.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">A media 'I told you so' culture is in the ascendency. State provisioned hacks are falling over each other to reclaim whatever it is they think they lost in both literary and street-credibility terms when backing the previous one-horse race via Punchestown toward Áras an Uachtaráin, Seanad agus Dáil Éireann. Furthermore their livelihoods as with professional politicians depend upon their expertise in returning the plebeian thoughts, hearts and minds to a quick-fix restoration of in stat quo res erant ante bellum or more commonly known as, a return of the status-quo.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">In the meantime; life as we know it in modern Ireland continues its inexorable journey toward the sea no-longer are the peasant class considered 'one for the boat-train' the ordinary citizen and their modern European/US style off-spring cannot wait to board the bus to Waterloo and all points beyond. They will leave not because of economic crisis, political dissent and/or otherwise of a myriad reasons put forward by a state endorse media but simply because that is the norm; the only option to any recognisable form of innate modern existence.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The one lesson learnt from the famine times was that a flood of peoples is simply not good enough, a generational trickle however of a nation's life-blood is the preferred method a dynastic trek abroad more easily absorbed by the host destination and less likely to be noticed by foreign authority. The Irish peoples are everywhere, everywhere except Ireland that is and often referred to as the Diasporas when something is wanted from them more usually fiscal back home on the ol' sod.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">A return of any individual member of the Diaspora however will result in interrogation in the first instance and if entrance is successful will immediately result in societal exclusion. In addition the onus of proof of eligibility of residence regardless of a grand-mothers surname is placed firmly on the backs of those who return to these errant shores especially those stupid enough to expect a soulful Céad míle fáilte romhat or hundred, thousand welcomes to you?</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">A New Year is almost upon us closing 2011 the same as 2010 full of promise that 2012 will somehow turn-out differently than all the other previous New Year's combined; but more likely than not until 'late 2012' a phrase used by An Taoiseach in more recent weeks. Ireland a nation well in the mire its political leadership incapable of intellectual resolve toward the half-million or so unemployable. Its infrastructure non-existent and natural resource sold-off to the highest-bidder. An island divided by foreign aggression and political and religious intransigence. A corner of Europa electronically patrolled from the banks of the River Thames and Washington DC; in complete ignorance of the remainder of the member states of Europa.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ireland a beautiful island bereft of any meaningful form of life for the majority of its people now subject to internal exclusion by an elitist rule of mob-law and fascistic intention. Go west, indeed, young people of Ireland but don't forget the other three points of the compass.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Come the spring my intention is to enjoin that outward migration and return once more to the anonymity of the legendary Diaspora and leave behind once and for all the folly of youth and its united ambition; Ireland a beautiful island bereft of its soul peopled only by ghosts, shadow-mongers, lawlessness, the old and the dead.</span></span></div>
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<span><span style="font-size: x-small;">©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span></span></div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-422315991971294565.post-38294782578218352712011-12-05T15:52:00.001-08:002011-12-05T16:00:05.057-08:00An observation on life<div align="justify" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;">An observation on life</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">There are two worlds we inhabit on a daily basis; there is the world of make-believe and conversely the world of make-believe. Reality cannot exist because there is no reality; all one has is an electronic archive of imagery all stacked-up in what our species term the human brain. Dependent only upon the individual's ability to withdraw from this cranial archive of embedded pixels will your acceptance of this anomaly be proven. When I was a child I was often asked the question as many of our off-spring still is by totally unconcerned adults of the species "And what do you want to be when you grow-up, little chap?" I would reply thus; "Me, now, fuck-off."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I was never sure which one of the four words had caused the subsequent consternation within the then made hostile and uncontrollable synapse of the myriad so-called, adult significant others polluting my fledgling, existence nor does it matter even to this day. I was and still am content at making my own realities sat on the kerb-edge sculpting my world of road-tar figurines to worry about the happenings beyond a junction between two nerve cells of an adult significant other. A junction between two nerve cells where the club-shaped tip of a nerve fibre almost touches another cell in order to transmit signals; a signal in this instance which informed the receiver basically to fuck-off and mind their own worldly business and not pollute mine with their delusion of grandeur of state approved imagery.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Furthermore; whatever it was that 'I' wanted to be was considered an irrelevancy before I uttered the first eager syllable; "Shut-up, boy! We all know what you want to be!" said the significant, other. It was true; I didn't want to grow-up and slavishly drive people around in an Omnibus be it scarlet-painted, forty-seven horse-powered and/or otherwise. Neither did I want to grow-up and rescue people from conflagrations or accidents of their own making. Nor go around killing people for and on behalf of the state all dressed-up in military-style suits of clothing unlike the majority of my contemporary school-chums.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Regardless life moves on and not unlike the author C.S. Lewis who said; "When I became a man I put away childish things, including the fear of childishness and the desire to be very grown up."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I was asked a question this morning which prompted this observation on my life to tumble out of my brain this evening albeit onto electronic paper, unlike Mr Lewis; and pass on the result to you who now read, it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"Mr Kelly" said the young enthusiastic governmental official examining yet again my on-going application for disability allowance. "I see that you will be aged 62 next month there are plenty of courses available for someone in your condition to retrain, you know. I replied that I did not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>"In fact these days" he continued; "you can retrain to be anything you want to be and without affecting your state allowance. Now, tell me, Jeffrey what would you like to be at age 62?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I replied thus; "Me, now, fuck-off."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">©Séafra Ó Ceallaigh 2011</span><br />
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<br /></div>Jef Kellyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13356614761256991516noreply@blogger.com0