298. The Other Side of Paradise

"Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft, where we are hard, cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand." F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)


The rich are different from you and me,
Said sad-eyed Fitzgerald, sozzled in Paris,
To which burly Hemingway, the boxer, replied,
Yes, they have more money.
That was the famous put-down,
Quoted over and over again, found
In all the literary gossip sheets,
But self-doubting Fitz had it right.

Daisy Buchanan had a voice full of money,
Tinkling, silvery, cold and careless;
With her shining hair and pouting lips,
She had been born to accept convenience.
Coolly, she witnessed the wreckage of lives,
Other people’s lives, little people’s lives,
And then blithely, gently, drifted away,
Leaving others to clean up behind.

Fitzgerald understood this.
Hemingway never did. He thought
It was all bluster and breaking through,
Being better than you, a two-fisted man
From Big Two-Hearted River.

Fight your first war from an ambulance,
Marry a woman, write short sentences,
Go to bullfights, drink, marry another woman;
Shoot innocent animals in Africa,
Write some more short sentences,
Get drunk, go fishing, get in a couple of
Airplane crashes, go to Cuba, get drunk,
Become a warzone tourist, show your teeth,
Burnish your he-man reputation,
Get married some more.
It wasn’t a bad old life. Macho man,
Successful writer, bit of an asshole.
But then it all came down
To that cold bleak day in Idaho
And the final metallic taste
Of that shotgun on your lips.
Tell me, how did that feel?

Fitzgerald understood.
In the Great Gatsby you can
See his secret life on display:
Just as Robert Louis Stevenson,
His brother writer before him,
He shows, by design not by accident,
His mild Dr Jekyll, Nick Carroway,
And then he carefully uncovers
His half-horrified fascination
With all the things that money can do:
I live in this mansion, Old Sport,
Haven’t quite counted the rooms,
All my suits come from Savile Row,
My shirts come from Jermyn Street,
My shoes, of course, are handmade;
I have servants, wine, food in abundance,
The whole place is lit up like Coney Island,
Mr. Nowhere Man from Nowhere.

Everything began to fall in place,
In Gatsby’s dreams, in Fitzgerald’s,
And all for the sake of brittle romance,
Shattered, splintered, they both broke apart.
A brilliant novel, “This Side of Paradise”
Had sealed his fate. His early success
Condemned him: assured, at last, of money,
His Southern belle had married him,
Ooops, let’s go to Paris! cried Zelda,
Where all the advanced people go.
One can imagine how well that went down
Among the embittered postwar French.
Champagne, champagne, toujours champagne!
The dollar then went a long long way
And all the locals (read the books)
Were landladies, waiters and taxi drivers.
Life was grand for Yankee layabouts,
Life was a fuckin jamboree.

It was 1928, says Fitzgerald,
Intermittently, inescapably observant,
That I noticed how soft we'd become.
Some of us were veterans of the War
But all the local boys on this Italian beach
Could have beaten the crap out of us.
Hemingway, of course, would have none of it.
He was still boxing in short sentences.
Hem, I want you to look at my prick.
Scott, tight, but not quite drunk, dragged
his uneasy friend into gurgling toilets.
Zelda says I'm too small, says I'm no good.
You're only small, says Hemingway,
because you are not aroused. Hey tiger!
I'm telling you, Scotty, pay no attention,
She's an emasculating bitch.
You can't say that. She's my wife, godammit!
Ah fuck it, Scott, pull up your trousers.

Seventeen drafts for a novel,
Written again and again and again
Just to get the tone exactly right.
I would say that was serious.
The Saturday Evening Post paid excellent money
For the popular Fitzgerald stories.
He worked hard at his craft, when sober,
Rewriting again and again and again.

Then suddenly he was no longer popular.
He went to Hollywood on a contract
To write screenplays from nine to five
In a breezeblock California building
With other sad less famous scribblers.
He wrote heartfelt letters to his daughter,
Until, finally, the drink did him in,
Or else those bruises in his heart.

He could see them so clearly through the window.
You are warm inside, I am cold outside.
Knock, knock, knock.
The rich are different from you and me.

297. Festival!

Every year from May 3-5 our town holds its annual Kite Festival which attracts more than a million visitors from all over Japan and abroad. The modern festival is in its 172nd year but the actual origins of the event go back to the 1440s when one of the ancient lords of the region celebrated the birth of a son and heir by rushing out to the beach and flying a kite. Now thousands do the same, and many of the kites are paid for by families who have celebrated the birth of a first child in the preceding year. In recent years the festival has taken on a more cosmopolitan atmosphere by the introduction of an International Food Fair in the centre of the city.



Care for an Egyptian kebab ...


... a Thai curry ...


... or some Turkish ice cream?


In the evening the local kite teams return to their home districts for a bit of a rally at the local shrine ... followed by a rousing parade through the neighbourhood with trumpets and drums and banners flying!



Here we go, here we go, here we go ...!



For a complete set of photos, go to this web album!

296. A Weekend in the Country

As April warms into May, what could be finer than to spend a quiet relaxing weekend away from town -- especially in a Japanese "besso", or country house, on the shores of placid Lake Hamana?



It's a bit dark by the time you get around to taking pictures, but that's OK.



Too bad about the reflections from the flash, all the same ...

Inside, a gathering of friends and neighbours:


brought together by our genial host, the redoubtable Kenji (Mac)Fujii!!



And there was food ...



And there was loads of drink ...


... and lots of good music!



Until quite quickly, came the dawn. Well, a grand time was had by all ... Kenji, many thanks! Time to head home ...



For a complete set of photos, go to this web album.

But then a rather strange thing happened ....

295. The Green Hills of Japan

(double click to expand photos)

294. Oisin at 'Chez Kao' - April 22

Down to Kao-san's for the monthly seisiún ... good craic as usual! We tried out a couple of new numbers on the crowd once we were pretty sure they were drunk enough not to notice the mistakes -- and we'd had enough in not to worry about mistakes, either! There were hardly any slip-ups, to be honest. We're getting better all the time, probably because we are playing more often together.



I think what it really comes down to in the end is knowing exactly what key to start in with for each song and getting the timing down for when the different instruments come in. It's a ferocious lot of things to remember when you're doing 20-25 songs one after the other but it gets to the point where we all know what's coming next and don't need to be thinking about it. Still, we need a clatter of new tunes and songs. There's plenty of them out there. Thank you, Ireland!! In other news, NORI-BO, the SANSHIN (samisen) player from Okinawa with the black specs and the fedora will be joining us as a guest player down in Shizuoka next week. The sound fits in well. I'm thinking of asking him to join the band as a regular. I know damn well he wants to. OK, kid, we'll give you a trial ... but it ain't that easy!!

293. Oisín at 'Mein Schloss' - March 31st

Satoshi had set up a gig for us at the local German Beer hall, a huge place that brews its own beer -- the best beer in town. We played two good sets on Saturday, March 31st, in front of the usual weekend crowd and a whole bunch of friends who came in to cheer us on - all in all, about 200 people. It was great. Good stuff!


First Set:

1. Foggy Dew
2. Rights of Man
3. O'Neill's March
4. I'll Tell Me Ma
5. Lord Mayo's Reel
6. Si Bheag Si Mhor
7. Chicago
8. Molly Malone
9. Dunmore Lassies


Second Set:

1. Kerry Polka
2. Irish Washerwoman
3. Australia
4. Star of the County Down
5. Tabhair dom do lámh (Carolan)
6. Cooley's Reel
7. Whiskey in the Jar
8. Wild Rover
9. Dirty Old Town
10. Oro Sé

PLUS!! -- Oisín Live on YouTube

292. Lance Corporal

There’s nothing further to be said.
Lookit, lads, I’m nearly dead.
Will I have a drop of whiskey? I will.

Ahh, God, that’s good. Simple and plain.
Down the red lane.
Tell me, lads, yer names again?

Is it Tom and Dick and Harry?
Hee-hee. Listen, never marry.
Never marry the first lass what asks yer!

Wheeze.
Wheeze.
That were a joke.

I do be old, decrepit and bollock
Naked under this here sheet,
Just like the Scots under their kilts.

Hee hee hee,
Cough, cough. Spit.
Where’s that bloody whiskey?

The parson went out after the battle,
Large and pious and smarmy,
And used his little officer’s cane
To flick over the kilts
On the bare dead buttocks,
To make it decent, like.

I had no time for him
When I were in the Army,
Nor his Tory religion.

We was sent to France
To fight for King and Country.
King never did bugger all for me,
And Country did fook all as well.
I went over because I were sent
And because of the lads, of course.

I’m a hundred fookin eleven, m’dear,
Here in this bleedin hospital,
Not thinking of heaven,
Not thinking of nothing much.
Been trying hard to forget
For ninety fookin year.

“Last Survivor Succumbs!”
The television crews
Want to put me on the News.
Them lousers ...
Let them suck their bleedin thumbs,
As me heart falls down me trousers.

Not that I’m wearing none
Under this sheet, like. Hee hee.
Are ye hiding that whiskey?

I have nothing to say.
I have nothing to say to that shower
Of cunning runts, what we call
The Highborn Ladies Running Team.
Hee hee. Pass over the bottle.
That were a joke in the Army.

I have nothing to say, lads.
I have nothing to say to them.
I have nothing to say to youse.

I have a lot I’d like to say
To Bert and Tich and Tommy G,
To Jimbo, to Fishface, to Bumblebee,
And to that pink-faced young Leftenant.
All killed. Killed dead ninety year ago
In front of me eyes. No surprise

Since it were war. Happened long ago.
So why can I remember their faces
And forget what happened yesterday?

Is that bottle dead? One last
Drop won’t kill me, but if it do,
I won’t be sad. I’d rather be dead
When reporters hover round me bed
Like carrion crows. God knows
I’ve been hanging on too long.

Whenever I close me eyes
I still see them grey Flanders skies,
And I can still see their faces.
They were so young. I was so young.
I want to sleep, ye young lads,
I want to sleep and wake up beside them.

It’s me, I’ll say,
No need to be afraid.
So sorry, boys,
I were slightly delayed.

291. Saint Paddy's Week, March 17-25!!

And great craic was had by all!! Click here for the slideshow.

Shinya has started up a website for the band in Japanese. Click here.

290. Beannachtaí na Feile Padraig!!

Happy St. Paddy's Day!! The band will be playing on the night so watch this space for photos and a report on the craic -- the bits I remember.

289. A message to the "Real IRA"

In despair, leaning down,
he kissed
for the last time
her cold unresponsive lips;
even in death,
there in the rubble and clouds of dust,
huddled in raw spillage
of innards, blood, and bones,
his daughter’s hair
was never less than lovely.

Omagh
August 15, 1998
3.10 pm.

If this is what it takes
to unite our country,
you cannot count on me.
Our natural borders
should run from the centre to the sea,
but no sane living person
condones barbarity.
Never for a moment think
‘The Cause’ authorises you.
Ireland despises you.

Links to a local site and the BBC.

------------------------------------

I was in Omagh visiting an old school friend about a week before the bomb went off. We were in Paris when we heard the news and couldn't get through on the phone for hours and hours. Apart from the horror of it all the main feeling one had at the time was one of humiliation and fierce and total shame.

288. Graduation Day

The Japanese school year runs from April to March. We start and end with the short-lived cherry blossoms. Check here for more photos.

287. Kenji rocks ...

... and then he rolls!

286. Inaka*

Knee-deep in water
among the mountains
bend and rise
planting the rice seedlings
bend and rise
just like 500 years ago
under the same mountains
living in the same village
bend and rise.
My husband, she says,
doesn't write so well
but he is honest and strong
and our second son
surprised us all.
With a show of metal teeth,
the proud mother,
sun-darkened, shaded
under a conical coolie hat,
smiles like a young girl.
Her second son, she tells me,
goes to college in Tokyo.

----------------------

*Inaka (田舎) - out in the country, anathema to most urban cool young Japanese because that is exactly where their families came from ...

285. Bog Irish

The uncovered passage
under this tufty uneven pasture
became a stone-lined tunnel
discovered, not by scholars,
but by the local IRA
intent on hiding weapons.

Traps for indigent robbers
had been worn away by decay
and in the large inner sanctum
lay three open graves,
carefully, reverently surrounded
by treasure and homely objects.

Combs and knives
little personal tools:
even kings need things
in the Other World.

Golden torcs, jewellery, six swords,
and seven golden drinking cups
of exquisite execution,
buried for more than a thousand years
under a rain drenched field
under placid munching cows.

284. Manhattan Transfer

After the last dance
fantastic, orgiastic,
came the feeling
I'd been here before,
but I still don’t know
what it is you want me for.
Whatever it is
I will do it anyway.
Here in the city
the whiff of drains,
the clatter of trains,
traffic on bridges,
all the pale wan faces
in corner coffee shops:
I feel giddy, ethereal,
inane: do you think
that we will meet again?

Lipstick, chewing gum.
I never see you
apart or standing alone;
I never see you
parted from your mobile phone.
I try to analyze you:
I despise you,
I adore you.
I can only implore you
to let me go. I don’t want to know
the lines of this soaring crazy song.
When you smile, contained and lazy,
everything goes hazy.
Everything feels wrong.
Even with a fat wallet,
either worked for or stolen,
I could never pay for you,
never in a lifetime.

Here comes the bus.
One bus can take you uptown.
I need you ...
One bus can take you downtown.
... but I don't want you.
One bus can take you crosstown,
if that's what you like.
I don't need you ...
Exact change, baby.
Step behind the white line.
... but I want you.
And one bus can take you
anywhere you want to go.

283. Béarla

Between the lines
the tines
behind the briars of the rose
pose
awkward living memories.
Unfreeze
our hands
in these neighbouring
but disparate lands
and make us feel
that blood and bone
alone are real.
With resignation
and accommodation
may the grass grow slowly
on the weirs.
May we put an end
to endless tears.

eh?

282. sweetness descends in its arc of meaning

The sodium lights
cast an orange gleam
over the rain-drenched
city streets; a white van
approaches, halts,
its door slides wide,
and a body tumbles
down to the pavement.
The van glides softly
silently away, and the lights
shine down on Portadown
on this typical scene
with a dull orange sheen.
Meet Johnny Dempsey.
He moves, then rises,
shakes himself down
and checks the aching head
for new bullet holes;
discovering none, he pulls out
a crumpled fag, then swears
when he can’t find
his bloody matches.
Hi ho, says Johnny D,
It’s a long walk home.

Much much later
(leaving out the boring bits,
just like in the movies)
Johnny reaches the gate
at 42 Mulberry Crescent
and can’t find the bleedin
door keys; Shite, says he,
and gives the aging wood
a good clatter of his boot.
Aber das ist nix gut,
for inside, with her brain half-fried,
Dolores McShane (Dolly to friends)
makes a manic dash to the jax
and in panic and the absence of hope
flushes away the supply of dope.
O Jayzuz, Johnny, I’ll make amends,
says she when our hero enters
by way of the downstairs window.
Ah, you’re grand, girl, says he,
brushing aside the shards of glass.
Gerrup now, Dolly, get on yer trolley,
for it’s been that sort of a day –
and I’d kill for a cup of tay!

240. The Twelve Days of Christmas (update)

On the First Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
a pink and perfect Mustang
with a V-8 supercharged engine,
fuel-injection, radial tires, and ...

On the Second Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
a complete set of 50 CDs,
digitized, remastered, all the
classic acts from Fillmore West, and ...

On the Third Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
an apartment lease, paid in full,
with tenant approvals signed and delivered
on the tony Upper West Side, and ...

On the Fourth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
a beach house in Florida, a yacht
with a stand-by crew, powerful
engines and GPS navigation, and ...

On the Fifth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
two-and-a-half tons of marijuana
in safe storage, zip-lock bags
delivered by discreet couriers, and ...

On the Sixth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
five million dollars in government bonds,
telephone cashing facilities, plus two
accounts in the Cayman Islands, and ...

On the Seventh Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
an impatient demand to respond
to her marriage proposal, by fax
telephone or e-mail, and ...

On the Eighth Day of Christmas
nothing happened ...
On the Ninth Day of Christmas
nothing happened ...
And on the Tenth and Eleventh
nothing happened either.

On the Twelfth Day of Christmas
my truelove sent to me ...
her psychopathic brother, two
Federal Agents, a subpoena,
and a foulmouthed parrot.

That's what you get, ye hobbledehoy,
that's just what you get
me bright-eyed boy;
that's what you get
(croaked the parrot)
that's what you get
for messing with ME!

So it's back, I guess,
to the homeless shelter,
to toothless Peggy, zonked-out
Ben, Stinky Pete, and the guy
who won't tell us his name.
But the parrot fits right in.
We're teaching him
to clean up his act:
"God bless us everyone",
he tells us now. Awrrkk.
-------------------------------------
Subsequently ...

On the Day after Christmas,
St Stephen's Day,
Boxing Day to the Brits,
I was rummaging through
the rubbish
(the things you find!)
and came away
with an M-60 machine gun
in full working
order, a bit oily,
but devoid of bullets.
So I called on the parrot,
now named Pedro,
and we took a cab
to West 13th Street
where these things
can so easily be arranged.
I suggested a social call
on my thin-lipped fiancee
at her townhouse
soiree, following
the private performance
at the Kennedy Center.
The enthusiasm
of dear Pedro
(we have become quite close)
caused hesitation:
how can he dislike her
more than me?
I think I shall leave
the whole affair
in his competent
claws: I can see
the headlines now --
"NY Debs Machine-Gunned
by Outraged Parrot".
There are times in a man's life
(and this is so difficult to say)
when you have to step back
and let the better parrot
take the lead; indeed
he will spatter them
to hell and gone
with his chocolate
bullets.

281. Rave On ('Bout Time Too)

This Blog has been getting so bloody boring ... I know, I know. Energy is being diffused in many stray directions.

Here's a poem now.
It is not one of my poems (keep down those sighs of relief, please!)
and it's not actually a very good poem.
It doesn't rhyme.
It doesn't scan.
It doesn't make much sense until you read it 2-3 times.
Then, I think, it makes a lot of sense:

Habits of Unsuccessful People

I dream of failure
and large parties
wish I could stop
whining and get
with the program

No coincidences, my father
worked hard his entire life
made me start when I was 12
Was happy when on vacation
4 weeks out of the year(inc
luding weekends) I never
wanted to be that- I want
to wake up happy about
the day- Love big and loud
Drink strange intoxicants
with hobos and the famous
fight about important things
not my dissatisfaction. Write
poetry, songs, sing alone
and in crowds, dance, dance,
dance and answer at least
one Big question to my satisfaction

So, I'm unsuccessful, wanna make
something of it?

I sat back and read this a coupla times, and thought, "wha'??"

The guy is called "dr_con" -- Doctor Con? -- and I came in contact with him on an Internet poetry forum. Yeah, these things do exist. We write poetry for one another, in happy little groups. It's a Gay & Lesbian thing. Sorry??!! Honestly, you guys have the attention span of gnats ....

I got the ball rolling with the following response:

This is a Henry Miller poem. A man, a misfit, feels the pressure to conform (he may be dumb, he sure as hell ain't stupid) but he's still not willing to pay the price. The idea of success in America still hangs on this lingering 19th century dream of scooping up idiotic amounts of money, as if that were still possible today in a country of 300 million. It isn't. For lack of any alternative measure of worth, personal wealth has become the yardstick by which people are assigned their social status. Sure, there are exceptions ... but not so many. Look around you.

This is why the idea of the "Loser" has taken on such force in American society. If you don't join the money merry-go-round you are a strange and dubious person and that means you could also be subversive and dangerous and possibly criminal. You are politically un-American and that can get dangerous.

Just look at what happened to the workers who tried to organize - the IWW - Eugene Debs got thrown in jail and union organizers got their asses kicked. Don't even bring up the subject of Negros (now Afro-Americans, as if a name change makes everything cool) or illegal immigrants from south of the border or anywhere else. In order for there to be a small circle of winners, there has to be an astoundingly huge corral of non-winners, i.e. losers. That's why the USA has no national health insurance, for example (socialism, communism!!) and why the education system is so Third World for lower-income families.

How can you get ahead without a college degree? Drug-dealing? Sports? Hip-hop? Wait a second ... there is always the Army and a one-way ticket to Iraq. The rich kids don't care because the Draft is gone after Vietnam. Let the rednecks and the ethnics fight for America -- we'll put a yellow ribbon on our SUV. Support the Troops! Yup.

This sounds and feels like the late Roman Empire -- just before the whole thing caved in. This adoration of money and the houses and cars and gadgets it can buy is totally sick. In any "normal" society the ratio of incomes between the ordinary line worker and the company president is about 15 or 20 to one (often less) whereas in America it is 250, 400, 1000, just off the chart. This cannot be sustained. It cannot go on. Any sensible person could tell you that. The growing disparity between the incomes of the rich and the poor is a recipe for social unrest: you think the French woke up one day in 1789 and said, hey, let's have a Revolution? Don't think so.

Gated communities, police, private security, all that stuff, are like the New Orleans levees. Works, sort of, as long as no Katrina comes down.

But what if there's a social Katrina?

No, I'm not straying away the subject. I'm developing ideas on the run, turning this comment on a poem into a sort of essay. OK, stop already.

Henry Miller had to leave America. He found artistic and personal freedom in France (don't knock the French, they know how to run their own country) and he was one among many cultural exiles from the crass money-grinding machine of 1920s America. These days I think Americans should stay home. The 1960s were a watershed and there was a lot that got started then that needs to be followed up on. Listen to these people in their 50s and 60s with their tie-dyed T-shirts and ponytails -- they might have something useful to tell you. It was a real start. They pulled the US out of a stupid war overseas and forced an imperial president to resign. Does that sound somewhat familiar? Should we do the same thing now??

I didn't think this was a happy poem at all. I didn't think it was joyful, I didn't think it was playful or full of 'humor' or anything like that. I thought it was defiant, yes, but despairing and sad. And that is why I have responded to this poem at such length and in the way that I have above.

Poems can be windows of the soul, and the individual sometimes speaks for the many. This is why Plato banned poets from his Ideal Republic: they were possible disruptive elements. Get rid of them.

Peace, brothers and sisters. But without justice, there can be no real peace.

Never be afraid to fight against real enemies when you have to. The enemies of our daily lives (our civilization, as we know it) are organized concentrations of power, at home as well as abroad, people who try to control our individual lives by political means ... first by persuasion, and if that fails, by intimidation. Preserving freedom has little to do with attacking faraway countries. Preserving freedom -- under a traditional and agreed system of Law (you guys in America HAD a Constitution, I believe) -- consists in stubbornly maintaining the rights and privileges of the ordinary citizen -- such as you, for example, your friends, your parents, the postman, the people next door -- protecting rights that have taken literally hundreds of years to evolve, often as the result of untold agony and the sacrifice of a dozen generations.

No big deal, nothing to do with me? OK, so throw it all away because of 9/11 and a government that has consistently lied to you? Well, that could almost have been done already, so -- if it's OK to ask -- when do you think you are going to get all these rights and privileges restored? Another 100-150 years? And this is what you leave to your children? Oops, sorry, little kids, we dropped the ball.

I'm not accusing anyone. How can I? I'm just as much a part of these times we are living through (and trying to understand) as anyone else. That's the whole point, we are ALL involved. We've been letting this thing roll over us for the last 3-4 years, this War Fever, with various degrees of complicity, ignorance, total disinterest, or acts of isolated defiance, but now I think it's time to -- maybe -- challenge the warped reality that is being imposed upon us.

Sorry this got so long. That's what poetry can do ......

280. Read ... and weep!