I didn't even sign in with a new identity yesterday and feel like i somehow let the team down. I'd like to say i'm boycotting Taunton, but i've been noticing it's more like...well, it's like writing that Dear-John letter to someone who was great in bed, but would never bring a bottle of wine when he came to dinner. You miss the sizzle a lot at first, but then notice there are fewer dishes to do, no splash on the cabinet next to the toilet, then you start cleaning the gutters and next thing you know you've lost ten pounds and picked up a diploma in International Studies.
Besides, i've decided to devote myself utterly to someone who quotes both Cohen and Pearse. There was a boy from Ulster who played uillean pipes and introduced me to Paddy Kavanagh's "Raglan Road", a cautionary tale about icon building in case this thing between us doesn't work out:
On Raglan Road on an autumn day I saw her first and knew That her dark hair would weave a snare That I might someday rue I saw the danger Yet I walked Along the enchanted way And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf At the dawning of the day
On Grafton Street in November We tripped lightly along the ledge Of the deep ravine Where can be seen The worth of passion's pledge The Queen of Hearts still making tarts And I not making hay Oh I loved too much And by such and such Is happiness thrown away
I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign That's known to the artists Who have known the true gods of sound and stone And word and tint, I did not stint, I gave her poems to say. With her own name there and her own dark hair Like clouds over fields of May.
On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow That I had wooed not as I should A creature made of clay - When the angel woos the clay he'd lose His wings at the dawning of the day.
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