"I said to Power, beside me, "It is the most wonderful racial thing I have ever listened to," and Power replied, "You may hear a great deal of singing, but you will never hear anything so Irish as that. It is pure Irish. ' Tenderness, melancholy, bitterness.
-A description of James Joyce in song.
Malarkey Vision paisley anne
When a person thinks IRISH, they think melancholy, Cathloicism, bitterness, drunkeness, potaters, blue eyes, red hair, freckles, powdered-bottom babies in soiled diapers. There is a subset of vocabulary, most of it subjective garbage, that has been perpetuated through the Cranberries lyrics and memoirs like Angela's Ashes. It is always the same memoir..'my father was Irish Catholic.' He drank our food away. Mom made babies. Lots of blue-eyed babies. Little red headed babies we were running around suckling off of Mrs. o'Leary upstairs.' Dad was bitter like his side of the family. Bitter like brown ale/ Mom, sick and syrupy, bright as the circus she grew up in--and.. green. She was green as the hills of Dublin when she married Dad. Together, they broke down on their way to getting nowhere. Dad knew it wouldn't work out and quickly began to hit on a girl named Brandy...mom begged him to try to start the car. and she begged...and she begged..until Tommy nudged her, "Mom, Dad isn't in the driver's seat anymore." So, yes my story sonds the same as all the others. But it wasn't really. Not in any way the same. This is a memoir of the aesthetics of my wacked out childhood. A childhood that only survived because my siblings and I lived 18 leagues under the sea. We lived in a fuzzy world. Our vision having been checked several times...they never could figure out why we saw 4 fingers in stead of two. We never told anyone. We began speaking to one another in code. Our eyes had such purity...in color and in function. None of us being too much introverted, we could not keep silent.......to be continued.................................................
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