mdm

A Swedish man asked me would I bring a group of his friends around the roads and tell them stories. Things I remember, characters I have met, the places and faces that make up the heartbeat of a town, the social archive, the nuances and nostalgia, that colour the light and shade that life's rich tapestry invokes. I write about memories. I wrote my own and my Mother Siobháns story in Scourged , a memoir  - where  memories unspooled and unribboned  from her mind became copper fastened in mine. So I thought it would be lovely to tell the men the old stories of long ago when I was young, and remember those who went before us, and the legacy they left. He mentioned idly that there would be paper folding money involved. I was in like Flynn. I offer you this time not text, but images ..........as a picture speaks a thousand words. A Jemmy to start A breath of air  The welcome Nervous as young foals the pack leave the Inn...

I ended up cutting the tiny tablet in half with the blunt red handled knife I used to saw lumps off sourdough bread. “If this be madness, bring it Lord” I sighed as I licked the white powder from the draining board like James Woods in The Boost. And then into quarters. And one fine day there was none. I ring my GP and sit in the waiting room with the shrieking cartoons re-reading the tattered magazine about fancy houses and gardens that has a surgery sticker on it saying Do Not Remove “ I’ve weaned myself off the meds” says I to the Doctor in her room. “I can’t be sedated and dumbed down, my happiness is turned off, my spark is gone, I can’t write, I sleep for 13 hours and I have only a 30 minute window of normality in any given day when my eyes are not swollen and puffy before I take another dose, I’ll deal with it, I’ll recognise the cyclical nature of it and withdraw and meditate, and here you may take bloods and see if I have arthritis or some shit as even my ha...