I inhabit a grey pullover claiming I’m a pyromaniac. I inhabit a childhood scar that blurs my vision. I inhabit a house with bookshelf walls, I inhabit a bathtub neither filled with the water of lies nor with Thoreau’s tonic of wildness. I inhabit a thirst for the written thought. I inhabit a cocktail cabinet cave supplied with nibbles, spare batteries, writing utensils. I inhabit a street where neighbours change slowly. I inhabit a cat’s eye searching the sky for birds and the ground for flowers of early spring.
What is there in habits I observe in the mirror that inhabits my hall and which I, in turn, inhabit too? When sun shoots white rays on untrodden asphalt and a night fox, spotted on the bottom steps of the south end of Ha’penny Bridge, stops for the camera or because, lacking pockets, she can’t procure the means to cross – never mind, she inhabits the city.
Habitats or cities – it can all be set afire by a torch reaching for my thatched roof or a pen signing an eviction notice. Burning bookshelves belch smoke blurring my vision while I sit in my bathtub writing down my thinking, spare batteries crackle, hiss and send out sparks informing neighbours about another slow change. Birds inhabiting the sky in search for a cat, green shoots grow from charred books and ashes – a slow change. A habit of spring.
Shannon, Fastnet, Malin, Irish Sea: offshore, heavy gales at first, good, occasionally moderate maritime weather conditions later, transmitting fishermen onto land, signing up for a quick one in Falcarragh, Doolin, Glengarriff; mainly fair in the beginning, then loosing their national identity by Friday.
Ballinamore, Roosky, Oughterard, free from heaving and hauling of nets, increasing foam on stout seas rising, pissed, pay washed away to publicans. Loading of social systems not expected to come on trawlers or in life vests, but pinstripes via Dublin, Dún Laoghaire, motor yachts.
I remember gorse growing rank along the east coast railway and the sky full of fire over Dun Aengus on a mild Atlantic afternoon in spring when we hastened over coarse gravely ground, uphill, to see the sunset from that old ring of stones on Inis Mór; when the isle seemed authentic – despite our presence.