A Month of 5.07pm /Wexford Skies































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OPENING DOORS

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  Opening Doors I was born after the fireworks during an opera in 1964 and from the off was an unusual child. Having escaped every form of enclosure as a baby and being found at the bottoms of numerous stairs, on window sills and in presses I was christened a Divilskin.   I sat sideways in prams, propped on yellow satin cushions, listening. As an infant I looked like a very old soul. While still a toddler I eavesdropped in cars and relayed information back to the people who were being discussed, much to the mortification of the adults. I always opened doors in other people’s houses, of rooms that weren’t even tidy, and rooted in their cupboards asking can I have this, so I could take a piece of them home .   I was tied into the back seat of an Austin 1100 with baling twine to stop me climbing out the windows and regularly given a drop of the craythur on a dodo to sedate me enough to sleep. As a little girl   I played alone with dolls, endlessly dressing a...
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Diarium (Noo Yoik ) Part 1 "Running Uphill"

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"Should we start the packing?" enquires Vonnie Dooley  Monday Jan 13th   A mere handful of hours after this photo was taken I collapsed at the back door at misty midnight.  It is 24 hours before I fly to America for the first time in my life.  According to my diary I woke at 7,  dined on a banana then rocked up to a dentist to have my teeth boxed off before I stunned the craythurs in the front row.   My smile has been disfigured for years from the slap of a bottle that chipped a front tooth, not to mention staining from smoking and caffeine.  Amrish is a stunning man with sparkling gnashers and a heart of gold who came in on his day off to check the state of play and how much the teeth have lifted with bleaching.   A lot actually, although he wasn't lying about the sensitivity.  He took a mould of my mouth on Day 1 and then presented me with the plaster version of my own teeth as an aide de memoir, a keep ...
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Sour Dough Bread

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Once upon a quiet summers evening   - a car drops   me at the glass doors with the tinkling chimes. I carry freshly plucked Marguerite from  furze yellow hedges around  ridged chocolate fields. I'm balancing  ice-cream wrapped in a deli-foil bag to keep cold so I open the door to my Mother’s room with my chin. A   pretty blonde woman in a blue tabard is kneeling on the floor,    both of my Mother’s hands in hers, craning upwards to see the face under the flopping fringe. -           Kin you tell me if there is anythink I can do for you ? She speaks with an accent that I've become familiar with, although one is never sure if it is Croatian, Polish, or Lithuanian. I am at pains to mark my territory, and inform this stranger that my Mother does not, cannot speak. I throw the flowers onto the patchwork quilt and make a production about getting a vase, a saucer and spoon. How very dare...
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