HOW AND WHERE TO START.
Me and Gawd an´ me, women, music and noise, my parents, pigs´ orchestra, three Hegiras, hunger for recognition of the cloth, of the good life, the truth, light gleams in the South, water-babies, dreams, kneeling female slaves, masochism mechanism, toothaches, heartaches, death or Death, loneliness on Skellig, being wanted or being loved, madness and early misery, the castrating, wet Celtic football, that´s enough as a start, maybe.
Whence then: Cartesian carping ? Black mood or black bile? Need for parallel lines, yet assymetry in my musical forms, the
Small Nobel For Deep Drilling, that second long “0” in ” theolOgian”, or drowning just at that south landing at Skellig.
Whither my gait, lope, sobbing hobble ?
Why me now here typing ?
My life as a mess, a palimpsest, a swiftly running film-footage, grace, accidental design, as an orchestral composition with strictly metred bits and macrocontrapuntal bits, the raw and the over-cooked, pottage and porridge, wry humour and being appalled.
I bawled crying , six´n a half, as I knocked at kindly Sister Frances´s piano-teacher´s door and, she inviting, of course, told me never to say ” It´s just me!”
Yes I can still see or feel that tactile little tonic for the left hand ( It was “The Rosebud Walz” ) while the melody for the right, no doubt high compositional class, is now gone for ever.