Right now I’m having a pint in O’Neil’s as it’s started to rain and it’s cold and I am continually rejected by even the tiniest of establishments. I know what “leave a CV” means – it means squat! I may try food service soon – there was a café with a help wanted sign northside. But by the time I decide it will probably be gone! Like my dreams and hopes of finding more than the depressing reassurance of my own inadequacy and imminent uselessness.
Though there is a small bit of consolation being here in this dark little wood and plaster pub on a rainy day in Dublin with a £2.55 Guinness lunch ahead of me and that’s the only thing I know. When I get to the bottom of this glass I’m right back to square one.
There are little jugs of milk everywhere for tea.
Ireland gets into your bones with its damp cold and chills my little soul, cutting me off from all but the stark white doubt so central in my body. It lives in my marrow – it is subatomic. It is the food without which my bones, my body could not have been created. This weather just wraps its fingers around that and holds it tight, grasps it, to remind me that it’s there. I wish I could live in the whole of my skin instead of the frail little things that create the framework of my body. There is so much to me but all I feel is the narrow series of straws at my very center. I can feel nothing but the horrible inadequate skeleton of doubt.
There is an absolute alien quality here. Almost as if I’d woken up in a world I thought I knew but was totally different in all those piddling details. The phone rings different, the coins are different, everyone is speaking close enough to me but it isn’t quite right. Like someone has come in and fiddled with all the dials and though the picture is the same the red is the fluorescent pink and there’s lines across the picture. And no one sees it but me. So everyone is clued into the same consciousness but my eyes hurt from that goddamned glowing pink and everyone sees me shut my eyes and shuts me out. I’m watching the TV through the window in the sleet while the family sits and laughs on the couch in the full gas heat. And that sleet gets into my very bones where that doubt is and the cold makes it alive and vibrant and electric and it rushes through my body like a dose of HIV.
I don’t think the cold’s even there anymore. I just think that question of self worth has been prodded to life and it’s living on its own now and like some vast 19th century European empire it takes all it can and rapes the land for its own carnivorous purposes, leaving a trail of dead bodies and burned fields as a testament to progress and civilization.
Fuck it. The world is mine. I made it. Without me there is nothing. You bastard marrow, I’m going to suck you out of my bones and feed off you and use you to fuel my rebirth and success. What do you think about that?
Enough of your bullshit – this place is mine, the sleet will end, the door will open and the sun will shine and you will be mine!