6th January, 2017
Intensive Care Unit,
Some recent writing of mine, which I may list if I get around to it. Not read to you for reasons we both know, get a mobile phone!
I rang yesterday and was told you are much better. I said to tell you David Ennis rang, maybe they did.
What to say? I was at the Bridge Hotel yesterday chatting with the barman, whose name I am uncertain of as of much else. Possibly Brendan, although I think he’s the bearded one.
We had an interesting if somewhat onesided conversation. I asked him had he outgrown being ten years old, he said he didn’t think so. I told him interesting things ten year olds said, such as that Columbus circumcised the Earth. Also, about Egypt, the inhabitants all lived somewhere else. This in their essays. As recounted to my by my niece.
I said according to opinion polls the independents are losing popularity. We tried them, it didn’t work. Is Shane Ross always stupid or only mostly, I asked? He said he thinks always.
When they were going to go to North Korea to tell Kim Jung il not to be stupid he could have cleared up their traffic problems. Remember our traffic minister who was caught driving the wrong way down a dual carriageway while drunk? He would make as much difference.
They decided not to go. If they had gone we would have spent years trying to get them out of jail. I’d leave them there, said Brendan (or whoever). Shane Ross said he doesn’t agree with politicians doing things for their constituency and the first thing he did was get a Garda Station put there. Then the crime rate rose. Could you make it up?
I paid for my pint and had a sandwich. I said put the change in the poorbox, I’ll collect it next week when I’m poor. There appeared to be no other customers in the bar, it was morning. Then I went to Centra and paid for some cigarettes I got on tick.
My life so far, or some of it. I spoke with John White on the phone, who told me ICU means ‘intensive care unit’. He said you must be bad. Or have been so. I said you are reportedly better. You’re a bad lad. Morally, spiritually and financially you are showing signs of improvement.
George is, as ever, giving all my stuff away and has a lot of letters to post, today, Saturday, I to address the envelopes because my writing is legible. I am a good writer, my handwriting has been praised. Possibly better than the great Russians. Who, as someone said, possessed greatness of soul. I’m not there yet.
John White said he doesn’t like serious stuff, only funny stuff. And him a physicist! What’s so funny about splitting atoms? Not to speak of splitting hairs.
Are you going to tunnel your way out of hospital? I was told you will be there for a few days so I send you this to that address. Pray for a miracle. I have holy well water given to me by a local guy, but you refused it. In a plastic bottle I am unable to open. Labelled by me in case anyone thinks I’m a secret gin drinker. On my mantelpiece, I might give it to my sister if she would take it. I mean the religious one, not the pagan.
People sometimes call me by my brother’s name, I don’t know if that’s an insult or a compliment. They say it’s a compliment.
I have ordered 40 of the inserts for the CD cover for my CD which would mean I have enough for all 50 CD’s I got duplicated. From Blueprint, the printers here. When you get home you’ll have that CD jewel case complete with inserts, posted to you there while you were in Dalkey.
The souvenir stroke tourist shop, Power’s, on the main street here may or may not sell my CD, I don’t know. They have my CD, not yet played, they sell no CD’s as of now. Also, Easons in the shopping centre here, the Bridgewater, are in the same boat, but seem more likely. Easons are nationwide distributors, as well as having their own shops. Who knows? I’m used to having doors slammed in my face, that’s why my nose is flat.
Expect nothing and you won’t be disappointed. I’ve got plenty of nothing. Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Think Marilyn Monroe. Diana Dors. Brigitte Bardot. Jayne Mansfield.
Just something to be going on with, Michael. I told you that joke about the do-it-yourself job, which I won’t repeat here. You don’t have to look your best. Too late now.
I met Billy O’Brien of the Woodenbridge hotel who said they will sell my book Reasonable Rhymes on their reception desk, as they did before with Pub Talk, my last book. I said nothing about my CD, but why not? They could play it over their sound system, if they would and if it didn’t drive the customers out. The Arklow Bay Hotel seem like a dead loss, like trying to get into Fort Knox. Some cement company own that hotel now and they have all that charm. Personally speaking.
Festina lente, hasten slowly. This seems to be turning into a long letter.
Most of the people George meets seem to be dishonest crooks, are there any other kind? Promising much, delivering nothing. George says its publicity, giving my stuff away free. I say people don’t value what they get for nothing. He disagrees. Not even any feedback, no thank you, that’s out of fashion. My stuff is cheap, but not free! Not to my way of thinking, anyway.
Am I to be a rich communist? That’s not Ireland, that’s China. Did people pay for chairman Mao’s little red book? Now regarded as kitsch in that country. Or was it free? You have to pay for the bullet they kill you with in China. Nothing for nothing.
It could be worse. I could be you, a year older. John White is even older and there’s nothing wrong with him a bottle of whisky wouldn’t cure. John doesn’t drink, he’s a wise man. He thinks people only talk rubbish in pubs. He is academic. Which does not mean useless and pointless, contrary to popular opinion.
What everyone knows is wrong. Do a person’s thinking for them and they love you, make them think and they hate you. A bureaucrat thinks rules are more important than people. We’re Irish, we don’t do rules. Sayings of an ancient Irish guru.
This letter is already on its third page and I try to keep within one page, not successfully, as you see. Oh yes, and the man who made time made plenty of it. That goes without saying. Einstein said time is an illusion. Did he wear a watch?
All this could have been said on the telephone if you were up to it and had a working phone. I hope you and your phone make a full recovery soon so that normal service may be restored. Having been an almost daily communicant, with you, I miss our conversations.
The rambling English drunkard made the rambling English road. I ramble on. Drunkards of the world unite! You have nothing to lose but your consciousness. A utopia called oblivion. It is better to travel than arrive. British Rail slogan, someone said. The Irish and English have features in common. I’ll drink to that!
Here I am in the middle of the night or early morning writing to you, killing time, see Einstein. How do you kill what doesn’t exist? See Nietsche on God. And God on Nietsche. They both say each other is dead. Pot. Kettle. Black.
Dialogue of the deaf. Unlike when you and I speak. I look forward to that happenstance. Le bon mot, le mot juste, must you always elude my grasp? Mot is French for word, ask Macron. Next time you meet him. Elysee Palace or Folies Bergere.
I better leave some space for the signature on this letter so will now conclude inconclusively. That’s all there is to say then, in a manner of speaking. Wishing you well in every sense of the word and in every way, your constant correspondent correspondingly yours, David (Tich) Ennis, with all best wishes…..
6th January, 2018