February 17, 2006

Fictional Friday

They say that the past is a foreign country, which makes reading it a particularly frugal form of travel. But reading about one's own ancestors imbues it with a richer dimension because to see the rogues and heroes of your own line brings home the knowledge that the potential for good or bad lies within you. It also brings out the dreamy...(fade to dream sequence)
   I was born two miles from the Irish Sea, where oft we'd catch salmon and sell it at the markets at Killybegs, Howth, Castletownbere, Rossaveal, Greencastle, Dunmore East, Dingle, Skibbereen, Kilmore Quay, Clogherhead and others along the coast. We’d smoke aged seawood in leeward winds and run-sail in our parent’s crude dingys. I’d stare at the agate sea until my mind was blank and the waves became as music. We would go to Mass at the church built in stones ten centuries old and dream of the Hill of Tara and hero Patrick’s burning the Druid altars. Sometimes the Sheridan girl would come with us, named like every other Eirean girl for the Blessed Mother. So fair she was that the Blessed Mother herself might be jealous, such be the beauty of this black haired Iberian. In the daily toil, we did the work man was meant to do – we free’d our mind from mental hardships and strife by dint of sheer effort. Work all day with your body and your mind become oddly satisfied...

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