I Don't Do That Kind

The Smell Of The Sea Swept Over The Wall And In Through The Empty Window-hole, Wide And Wild With A Million Intoxicating Secrets. I Don't Trust That Smell. It Hooks Us Somewhere Deeper Than Reason Or Civilization, In The Fragments Of Our Cells That Rocked In Oceans Before We Had Minds, And It Pulls Till We Follow Mindlessly As Rutting Animals....it Lures Us To Leap Off High Cliffs, Fling Ourselves On Towering Waves, Leaves Behind Everyone We Love And Face Into Thousands Of Miles Of Open Water For The Sake Of What Might Be On The Far Shore.

Have You Noticed How Easily The Very Young Die? They Make The Best Martyrs For Any Cause, The Best Soldiers, The Best Suicides. It's Because They're Held Here So Lightly: They Haven't Yet Accumulated Loves And Responsibilities And Commitments And All The Things That Tie Us Securely To This World. They Can Let Go Of It As Easily And Simply As Lifting A Finger. But As You Get Older, You Begin To Find Things That Are Worth Holding Onto, Forever.

Ireland Is Such A Young Society. The British Were The Ruling Class Up Until They Left About A Hundred Years Ago, And We've Been Trying To Work Out What Our Class Hierarchy Is Ever Since.

We Think Of Mortality So Little These Days... I Thought Of The Stern Victorian Determination To Keep Death In Mind, The Uncompromising Tombstones. Remember, Pilgrim, As You Pass By, As You Are Now So Once Was I: As I Am So Will You Be.

I Am Not Good At Noticing When I'm Happy, Except In Retrospect.