It is day two of this challenge and I choose to continue with the theme of ‘writers who have changed my life’. The list, I warn you, could run into the hundreds if I was to continue past day three. I won’t.

J.P. Donleavey died only last year and left behind many wonderful works, the most famous (infamous?) of them being ‘The Ginger Man’. It is, to be sure, not everyone’s cup of tea in that it focuses on the irresponsible hedonistic rogue, Sebastian Dangerfield who has physically beaten his wife, has abandoned her and their child to poverty and indulged in a life of cheating, lying and drunken debauchery. Dangerfield is one of the most monstrously appalling protagonists of literature and yet one is mysteriously attracted not only to him but to the sad poetry that inhabits the novel.

So. I thank you again, Bag Lady for allowing me this moment of self-indulgence.

Here, then, is a little taste of ‘The Ginger Man’

 

“The sun of Sunday morning up out of the sleepless sea from black Liverpool. Sitting on the rocks over the water with a jug of coffee. Down there along the harbour pier, trippers in bright colours. Sails moving out to sea. Young couples climbing the Balscaddoon Road to the top of Kilrock to search out grass and lie between the furze. A cold green sea breaking whitely along the granite coast. A day on which all things are born, like uncovered stars.”

― J.P. Donleavy, The Ginger Man

And lest I be accused of not playing the game and not supplying a quote that is traditionally short and snappy then here is another.

 

“Writing is turning one’s worst moments into money.”

― J.P. Donleavy

 

One day around the middle of last century I was nominated to run for class captain of 6B in my final year of primary school. I campaigned on a platform of NO HOMEWORK – EVER! but, in the end, was outflanked by Elizabeth Robinson, who’s proposal to replace the government sponsored supply of daily lukewarm milk with vanilla paddle-pops (FREE ICECREAM!!) was perceived by the electorate to be more fiscally responsible. I was nominated by my little football pals and I think, as a result, missed out on a large proportion of the all-important female vote.

Can it be more than a coincidence that my second nomination, which arrived only a few days ago, comes from the Bag Lady, who also goes under the name of Rugby843?

The requirements of the challenge are fairly self-explanatory. I must thank whoever nominated me (thank you My Dear, ) provide three separate quotations over the space of three days and nominate three new people to participate each day.

I have decided, on this occasion, to skip the last requirement, in memory of my first nomination way back in Miss Cleary’s class at Balgowlah Heights Primary. There will be no homework. You can read on without fear of obligation. But, by all means, feel free to join in with any quotation that may have meaning for you. I nominate no-one but I also nominate everyone.

I choose, on day one, a quotation from Henry Miller. Anyone who knows me well is aware that Mr Miller has been a strong influence in my life. He was introduced to me by my mother, but, if I must be honest, I was initially attracted to him in adolescence by his reputation for explicit sexual content. The truth is that there is more explicit sexual content in your average shampoo commercial these days but what I discovered in the likes of ‘The Tropic of Cancer’, ‘The Tropic of Capricorn’ and ‘The Rosy Crucifixion’ trilogy would alter my thinking for ever.

So here (after a little too much fanfare, perhaps) it is. Make of it what you will.

No one asks you to throw Mozart out of the window. Keep Mozart. Cherish him. Keep Moses too, and Buddha and Lao Tse and Christ. Keep them in your heart. But make room for the others, the coming ones, the ones who are already scratching on the window-panes.

HENRY MILLER, The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, 1945

Mindlovemiserysmenagerie

another trite take on a Prompt. I actually wrote it as a response to my pal The Bag Lady but decided to give it some air of its own.

 

From the day she chose to leave
I’ve worn my heart upon my sleeve
Parading round the neighbourhood
Pretending it was looking good
I have no place for it inside
Have nowhere for it to hide
I bare my soul for all to see
Pleading for some sympathy

When first responding to the shock
I kept my heart wrapped in a sock
Then thinking that it must be dead
Left it underneath the bed
But then one night I heard its beats
So cuddled it beneath the sheets
And after it had had its way
I took it out into the day

 

So take my heart, it’s yours to steal
It’s genuine. It’s bloody real.
It does not function all alone
It needs to find a happy home
Perhaps these days it’s not the same
From being left out in the rain
I think for its protection that
I should keep it in my hat.

 

 

Don’t blame me. These words were in the prompt

My fingers through your hair, your curl
Don’t spill your drink my precious girl
You feel my touch, you spin, you scream
You wonder of my thoughts, obscene
I plant a kiss upon your lip
You’re sticky darling, I won’t slip
Let’s laugh about it and be seen
Between us there should be no screen
Excuse me whilst I make a pass
Forgive me for my lack of class
Amuse me whilst I lift your skirt
Trust me sweetheart, this won’t hurt.