• Michael Noctor

Time to stop rambling

Last night I touched on the subject of solitude. I’d downed a few scoops and I may have been confusing solitude with being single. However, I have experienced long periods of solitude as was the case when my daughter was living in Scotland, I wasn’t talking to a few others, I hadn’t been to see my pal in Galway and I spent 79 consecutive nights with just me and Esperanza. The mere mention of her name is causing distressingly sad emotions to stir coz I fear the old girl might be on her last rims. I mentioned the loadsa car years but another parameter is mileage and she/we have clocked up 179,000 and when I tell ya I am driving the bejaysus out of her, well, it means I am driving the bejasus out of her. Needs must ‘n’ all that.

Anyway, forget solitude for now.

I’ve started to blog again coz I am starting to feel the start of the beginning of my creative juices starting to start.

Hold on …

This is the view from my apartment living room and I use the term ‘my’ very, very loosely coz – calling a spade a spade, like – the apartment is a homeless shelter (yes, I’m still homeless, but it’s more of a technicality – no, fuck it, I am no longer homeless and I take that back coz it’s insulting to people who are) and it belongs to the Peter McVerry Trust, hold on, I think it belongs to South Dublin County Council and is leased from SDCC by PMVT. Anyway, possession is nine tenths of the yokiebobs and coz I’m sitting here, looking out the window, well, looking at my new second hand laptop screen that I purchased for one hundred and seventy nine yoyo’s, it means this apartment is mine and talk about going off in a fucking tangent but that’s just the way I roll when my creative juices start to commence to begin to start.

Hold on …

This is a little video of the noisy activity outside. It’s a fine balcony to people-watch from, but it makes playing my guitar pretty pointless, but I was thinking as I strummed this morning that I’m like a Beethoven-type guitarist and in fairness the way I play and sing it’s probably a good thing for anyone within earshot that the noisy traffic drowns out noisy me.

I’m trying to decide between making my next book a serious one or a comedy.

I suspect this apartment is positioned at an almost identical angle to my old family home in St. Maelruan’s Park where, as a very young boy, I would walk into the bathroom and be immediately blinded by the sunlight bursting into the room. I’d stare out at a day waiting to be filled by doing things like playing, and more playing. Here I sit, a fifty-six-year-old man, looking out at a day waiting to be filled by doing things like playing and more playing.

I’m thinking about midnight in Osuna, Sevilla on June 17th when I sat with a JD, with Coke and ice, puffing on a Marlboro Red contemplating the arrival of the big 50. A year later, I stepped off the grid. I like to think my brain has fully recovered from the beating it took almost a year ago. I have just fallen in love at first sight, again, staring like some sort of sick pervert out the window, no, glancing, glancing not staring. It’s not my fault that beautiful women stroll nonchalantly past my window. It’s my curse, perhaps.

Time to stop rambling, there’s work to be done.

(That’s a one-marker)


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