A neighbour of ours passed away a few days ago, a lovely man, an artist and teacher. His friends and neighbours lit up the outside of his family’s home this evening in remembrance.
I see people leaving, which is sad, for me twitter was the big diaspora machine, and then it allowed me see and think differently about islands and oceans, plus all the nice pictures from people on walks.
Yesterday I read last year was the first no one died of security related issues in Northern Ireland since 1969. Today the news that one of Jean McConville’s children passed away. The traumas will long survive the violence, which is the greatest rebuke to all conflict, everywhere.
Middle boy leaving for college, rumbling through the house gathering bags, hailing questions, in and out and around. He’ll be nearby but I’ll miss his energy, the house dynamo, as he always was. Excited for him, but still.
I happen to be in Berkeley and heard the so very sad news my friend Gerry Dawe has passed away. I was thinking yesterday of Heaney visiting Brian Moore in Malibu, so these lines came back. So much to say, such a beloved, gentle observer of the deep ways of the world.
The South Bank Show made a film about Seamus Heaney in 1991, directed beautifully by
@KnoxTony
. Here is a short clip of Heaney talking about Toome, ‘under bogwater and tributaries’ where ‘elvers tail my hair’
In other archival news, I played drums in one of the support bands for Fugazi in Belfast in September 1990. We were called Unsound, but often Unsigned or Unheard of. Still one of the greatest bands I ever saw. Brendan Canty gave me a big grin and compliment after. Good souls.
‘As long as I can remember I've been extremely conscious of being Irish - even when I was writing about such very un-Irish things as suburban life in Paris or the English seaside’
Elizabeth Bowen, The Bell, 1942
I happened to talk to John Purser on Skye yesterday and he said the sun rises and sets at such a low angle now it illuminates geological details of the landscape you’d otherwise miss, the ripples of rock, a winter’s deep time.
The drive home from Gairloch this afternoon, as the sun was getting low. These cold, crisp days of bright light and ice blue skies here in this magnificent place can make the heart sing.
My friend kept me a copy of my review of Heaney’s letters in the paper from the autumn, which might be of interest in case you have the book, not least for the beautiful Colin Davidson portrait.
In my age category, but still, I think this is the first athletic medal I ever won in my life. The fact everyone else stayed home because it’s freezing may have helped.
The single finest passage of writing about the experience of fighting in the Irish war of independence, Ernie O’Malley remembering north Cork in light of his later travels to Mexico and the American southwest, On Another Man’s Wound (1936) a favourite of John McGahern’s.
Reading this in class tomorrow and it occurred to me maybe, just maybe, it’s the first time it has been taught in the US? I have already had a student say they want to write about it. It does present the challenge of how to talk about that most difficult idea, simplicity.
We had a great couple of days with Hua Hsu, whose memoir Stay True won the Pulitzer last year and is a moving read for anyone into music. He had such profound things to say about friendship, so here I am with Hua and my ami
@edpavlic
I struggled all summer to write a short essay about Tim Robinson for a collection coming out later in the year in his memory. I finished today so here is a small part of it, which I share as I am not quite sure I have it right yet, if any of you have any thoughts.