Local Motion

Venerable venues, nondescript but hosting some of the finer flavours to tease one's auditory taste-buds. Ear-buds?

The small sponsored A-board with pub-frontage real-estate proffers promise of quiet fretwork within. Said seissun had been duly noted for several days previous. Some weeks had slipped since my last witness of one of the villages' finer stringfellows; this evening beckoned the motion toward with baying nor-west gusts set to stagger the step.

Stouts are ordered I recline 'pon comfy cushions & open up. I'm late & taut-steel is already fingered furiously from a quiet corner. Seamus O'Dowd, brandishing a blur of digits honed to enflame with such savage precision & relentless abandon on both fiddle & slid six-string it jags for a moment the table-delivered pint from it's deep throated destiny. I hesitate, en-awed again, but the pause is brief & soon succumb to engage all remaining senses.

This evening is not too dissimilar from previous sessions & this posthumus is no detraction from previous descriptions of similar sit-ins. There are few standouts as all are a consistent concentration of quality. I had the wizens to carry materials to glean what I could from my muse - little more does one require than a few sheets & a marking implement of some sorts to channel what arcs, beknownst or nowt, from one artist to another. Such cross-pollenation has fruited some interesting lines in the past & once again, channels open & electrified, suck strange curves from my pen.

Post gig, I'm bustled homeward with my mind a mess; scattered to the fringes with hot-licks, curious chord changes. I'm accompanied by vicious gusts at my back, at my face, relentless & driving. I've stashed a pocket with artifacts; rough scribbles - pre-emptives for print.

There's now weeks of brain-bending logistics to source supplies before ink is to be pushed through silk. I query to rebuild, repurchase required materials which are ultimately disposable or endure the financial frustration of outsourcing. A life in transit without ready access to the equipment sleeping idle in homeland storage makes the mind melt. I'm torn between two lives in disunion in two hemispheres, both mine, both never to meet. Tragic.

In the meanwhile I shuffle between the two. I'm not ready to abandon Eire but the life complementary just out of reach is pining for the prodigal's reclamation.

Fucks sake - someone give me a coin.