I put on my finest green, painted two shamrocks on my cheeks and went out in public. As usual, everyone stared, but at the supermarket I was a Leprechaun trickster, moving into their space as if to say boo, thrusting my face into theirs, backing them up, then laughing and leaving them to their bewilderment. Back out on the streets, to the occasional Chinese who like to hawk loudly and spit on the ground whenever a foreigner passes, I stopped, looked them square in the eyes, hawked and spit back. This spooked them but other onlookers liked it and actually smiled at me, enjoying this small drama, a St. Patrick’s victory of sorts. And on this day I will take every victory I can get. You see, ever since I was young, I have always felt my Irishness. An ache for a land I have inhabited in my mind even before I was conscious enough to know that ideas can reside in the deepest part of the unconscious and will themselves into being, because, even before I could understand it, I was Irish Proud and distrustful of overlords I’d never even been under the yoke of yet, and Irish creative like the great James Joyce, riffing off on imaginary soliloquies, bouncing this word off that word, and that word off this word, in my head you see, making up all sorts of imaginary universes, that by the way, all resisted the British. But it was more than that, it was a kind of sword to the sky defiance, mixed with a moss covered peacefulness, the peace of valleys not yet invaded, and a deep down, born-in melancholy that could make all the leprechauns cry, because I inherited the idea of a sad, lonely, unjust world, yet still, I was a wild Irish lad in the best sense, curious, innately tender, wily, stubborn, willing to take on all comers and then cry by myself because I had beaten them, confused by the terror of my inborn ferocity, snapping and snarling and leaping out at the first sign of oppression, doing battle with Don Quixote windmills I would later become well acquainted with, a ferocity I still saw in the faces of booze-beaten men who stalked about looking for something worth the fighting of the good fight, but settled instead for turning on those who most dearly loved them, creating the age-old Irish sadness that sings its sad dirge to this day from Limerick to Londonderry, from Boston to Nova Scotia. Yet, the world owes so much to the Irish. Its words and phrases have entered the vocabulary. Its music was absorbed and co-opted, birthing new musical movements. True Irish charm launched legions of imitators, and sadly, most of them are politicians, the Kennedy’s included, and so on and so on. Scratch against the skin of diverse nationalities and you will discover some Irish moss in all of them. I walked along the Yellow River in silence, where, in a dark park I paused and danced a jig to the rising full moon, named the Full Worm Moon because as March thaws earthworms appear attracting robins. Northern American Indian tribes also called it the Full Crow Moon, as the songs of black crows signaled the end of winter. In the dark I composed songs to the Crow Moon and sang them all the way home. Once there, lacking corned beef, I ate a roasted chicken and parsley potatoes—feasting on the day, then drank good beer while listening to live Irish radio from Dublin as St. Patrick’s Day came to the Emerald Isle, where, contrary to myth they do celebrate it, then made love to the moon as it crossed the sky framed in the windows of my sun porch. All in all, a pretty good damned day, In a world that has yet to believe In its own best intentions . . . [This post is humbly dedicated to the memory of my long ago friend, Billy Highland]
3 Comments
Andy Monaco
3/19/2014 04:42:39 am
Grazie mi amico! Eirinn go brach!
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Mary
3/20/2014 06:32:16 am
Glad you had a good St Patrick and I love the Shamrocks on your face I can imagine the looks maybe next year they will be painting their faces too! lol Too bad you couldn't get corned beef it was so delicious this year. I had it 3 days in 3 different places oh so good.
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Tony
3/30/2015 03:53:43 am
Add some blue dye to the Yellow river next St Patty's day, and presto!
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