Sunday, 7 August 2022

The Saver

 I dreamt that my pre-teen (as he was once) neighbour, Garret, came over to my garden to kick football. He would try to score a goal and I would save. He shot magnificently and I saved magnificently, diving gracefully and catching the ball in mid air.

His father, Emmet, was incredulous; he did not believe his son could kick so well, or need to transfer to a real soccer park to develop his skill.

More importantly, in that dream world, I could get nobody to discuss with me what energy the ball must contain as it travelled through the air; what energy was in Garret's kick and how; what percentage of the kick's energy was transferred to the ball; what percentage of the ball's energy would be lost between the kick and the save; how my leaping energy was generated; how all this energy was brought back to zero as I lay on the ground with the ball in my arms.

The dream reached its conclusion with a sudden image of the crucified Jesus, not in a hanging pose, but a leaping pose, as He stretched out to save (the ball). Most striking in His dark figure were the crescent-moon shaped whites of His eyes under the black pupil-iris balls of His eyes, (with a hint of green through the irises).

The dream undoubtedly rises out of my pondering on a tentative book in my head, titled "Mathness," which questíons some mad math theories, sch as non-computable numbers, and a number-line divided into a continuum of multiple Infinities of points. (A line can't divide into points, only segments, and conclusions drawn from this false basis must be suspect).

Wednesday, 22 June 2022

The Rubber Building Block

 I dreamt I was back in my childhood home in Phibsboro', but it had elements of the Mukuru slums of Nairobi.

I dreamt the people had made a rubber building block. This was like a rubber pillow, made with a hard rubber external surface, but packed with desiccated rubbish. Basically, you got a rubber container, packed it tight with chopped-up rubbish, and attached the rubber lid, then sealed it with a blow-torch or something like that. It seemed to be a way of turning rubbish into building material.

You could build a wall with these rubber bricks, sealing the wall with a blow-torch or glue.

I was in the kitchen of our house. This is a galley kitchen. It is the back part of the passage that leads from the front door to the back door. There is a passage about three feet wide in between cabinets lining the wall on each side (cooker and cabinets on one side and kitchen sink and cabinets on the other).

Now, I was receiving information about this wonderful rubber block invention from people standing blocking the kitchen door, who appeared to be Polish immigrants, babbling in their own tongue, but obviously thinking it would be good if I accepted, in some way, the value of their invention. Homeless, they hoped to build houses for themselves with this cheap invention.

My father was at the back door, trying to bring his bicycle through the house. The bicycle shed was in the back yard, so, we had to bring our bicycles through the house. They might be parked outside the front during the day, but, for security, they had to be brought into the back at night.

"Go back into the dining room out of my way," said father. But my way was blocked by these people. I could not move.

My father got angry. He had to get to work, and his way was blocked by me. He did not seem to appreciate that I was stuck where I was by him and the Polish people.

"Didn't I tell you to get out of the way!" he roared.

Thursday, 30 September 2021

Driving and Parking

 Recently I have been dreaming about driving in traffic, probably because of a new focus in my waking hours on my Krunchie Cab project.

In one such dream, I was driving into town in a stream of traffic. I had arrived in town and wanted to park, but I was caught in the  stream of traffic and there was no place to park. I was in  town, but the stream of traffic would carry me through town and out of town, to God knows where.

Then I spotted an opportunity that suddenly presented itself: a broad footpath just beside me. I made an instant decision, indicated and pulled onto this broad footpath. There was just room for my little car here, in between a lamp post and a post box.

My wife and I got out of the car. We wanted to go walking along a lovely country lane that, in the dream, happened to be where Parnell Street is today, stretching from the O'Conell Street junction up to Capel Street. Of course, in reality today, this is a busy city street, crammed with traffic, but in the dream it was a country lane, bound on both sides by leafy hedges and trees. All we had to do was negotiate  our way on foot through the stream of traffic to get to the other side.

However, I hesitated. I looked back at the car. Was it all right where it was? Was it vulnerable to vandals or traffic wardens? I saw a man walking towards me who had been a colleague where I  worked 20 years ago.

"John," I said, "Do you think will my car be all right there."

"I am no expert on traffic matters," said John.

"I know," I said, "But I only want your opinion."

John looked at the car. It was well clear of the stream of traffic, and was no obstruction to anybody using the footpath.

"It looks fine  to me," he said.

But I still had doubts.

While I was looking, another car pulled out of the stream of traffic onto the footpath. But there was no room for it to pull clear of the traffic, and there it sat, half on the footpath and half in the way of the traffic. It caused the stream of traffic to bend and weave and blow angrily.

"Oh no," I thought, "Now the police will be called to solve the  traffic problem, and my car will be treated as a culprit the same as this car."

The dilemma remained unresolved.

I wake in the  morning to the sound of the radio, which we use as an alarm. Remarkably, in the news was a  report of a lobby group who were demanding that the law clamp down on people parking on footpaths.

Sunday, 7 March 2021

Financial Consultant

 Yesterday, I heard a programme on radio advising the exploration of our own areas, with the aid of an old "six inch" map showing the old buildings and features, so it was no wonder that in my sleep I should find myself walking around Georgian Dublin observing all that was to be seen.

I entered a lovely Georgian street and noticed a grand building behind a fancy courtyard. I entered the building and found myself in a room that was a cross between a hotel foyer and a grand bank of the 19th century. There were comfortable seats all around the large room, shelves of books here and there, and more books disposed randomly around. 

"A reading room!" I guessed.

I sat down in a comfortable chair and took up a magazine from the nearby coffee table. The pages in the magazine were of a thick semi-glossy paper, so I surmised the magazine was one to be kept rather than read and thrown away. It was entitled "The Works of John Bonham." Now the wine I had with my dinner yesterday was labelled "Bonpas," (Cote du Rhone) so I guess this is where the name "Bonham" came from.

I had never heard of John Bonham, so hoped that glancing through the magazine would give me an idea of what his works were like. However, when I opened the magazine, I found a typed page pinned onto the magazine page. The typed page seemed to be a contract that John Bonham had signed with the Department of Arts and Culture. However, a lot of the typed content had been struck out, and different conditions, written in ink, written in instead.

I turned from page to page in the magazine, but all I could find was more and more one-page contracts signed by John Bonham.

"Ah," I said to myself, "It looks like the civil servant dealing with Bonham was given the task of signing up Bonham at all costs, no matter what changes had to be made to the contract to get him to sign."

A well-fed, prosperous-looking man came in the front door of the reading room, passed across the room into an inner room, calling "Mr Brown" as he entered. With that one of the gentlemen sitting in the  room got up and followed the prosperous man into the other room.

"Ah," I said to myself, "This is obviously a waiting room for a highly-paid medical consultant."

I no longer felt comfortable lounging there, so I put the magazine back on the table and made my way to the door. 

Two other gentlemen reached the door at the same time. I soon learned that their surnames were Harrington and Moody.

"So," said Harrington to me, "This is not for you?"

"No!" I replied dubiously.

"But, no doubt," said he, "You have some savings?"

"Well," I said, "You would hardly have reached my age without some little bit of cash in the bank."

"Perhaps you have a few thousand or so," he said.

"Maybe so and maybe not," I said, as I moved away from him.

As I left, I saw Moody advising Harrington. He brushed a bit of dust or debris from his shoulder and, apparently, advised him always to wear a clean shirt and keep his tie straight. Then he advised him to say to himself, "I'm the best; I'm the best;" then put a smile on his face and approach the next potential client with confidence.

"So," I thought, "It was not a medical practice. It was a stock-broker's or financial adviser's."

Harrington was there to pick up customers disillusioned with the firm. He saw me considering what the firm was offering (the magazine of contracts I had perused), apparently rejecting it, and leaving. He had hoped to pick me up as a client, lure my savings from me to invest on my behalf.

Well, yesterday also saw the news about Davy Stockbrokers being fined by the Central Bank, so my devious subconscious mind was bringing all the news into personal perspective.

Saturday, 31 October 2020


 I woke in the middle of the night with my internal voice clearly stating, "It's a hornpipe."

I knew immediately what this meant, but you, dear reader, obviously would not, so I must explain.

A few weeks ago, I put music to W B Yeats' poem "The Song of the Wandering Aongus," and released the song on Spotify and the other streaming channels. The other day, I finished putting music to  James Clarence Mangan's poem, "A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth Century," or, rather to my adaptation of it, "Bertie of the Golden Hand." 

Mangan describes a vision of a prosperous and happy Connaught under the reign of Cathal More Of The Wine-Red Hand, and then a return visit to a desolate country under a later regime. I have lived through a prosperous and happy Ireland ("The Celtic Tiger") under Bertie Ahern, followed by a desolate country under an economic recesion; and now a renewal of Covid 19 lockdown brings Mangan's poem to mind.

I found, when the job was done, I had used the same air, (though  with a swifter tempo), as Wandering Aongus. I was surprised because it had never occurred to me that the two poems have the same structure and meter.

I tried putting new airs to Bertie in my head, but failed.

Now, how I put an air to a poem is this: I recite the poem rhythmically and it naturally falls into a tune as I recite. So Bertie fell into the same tune as Aongus and would not give up.

It was in this state of mind that I went to bed, and the subconscious worked on the problem when I was asleep. It cracked the problem and, waking me up, presented the solution to my waking mind with the cryptic phrase: "It's a hornpipe," even though I had set Aongus to a 3/4 rhythm, like a waltz).

This dream insight provided me with a store of airs to  consider for Bertie Of The Golden Hand. I chose The Derry Hornpipe and adapted this to my purpose. Having run through the song a number of times, I decided that my best presentation was as a recitation over an orchestra playing the tune. and so this was how I recorded it and present it now on Spotify, Amazon Music, Deezer, etc.

Links to these songs on Spotify:

Wandering Aongus

Bertie of the Golden Hand

Wednesday, 4 March 2020


So, at the end of January I had a dream calling on me to exert my ego, have purpose and take action. Which I did!

I had just mastered the skills of composing a score and mixing my voice with artificial musical instruments and my whistle. (Well, acquired sufficient skill to produce some kind of product). So, during February I wrote scores for nine James Joyce airs (that I had been making up down the years), and a few of my own songs, and launched them onto the digital services (YouTube, Spotify, iTunes, Apple Music, Amazon, etc.)

This took hours of hard purposeful labour and probably expresses to some degree who I am. At any rate this is my  work and my creation.

This February proved a good month to do it. The days were bitter cold. Down the country they had lashings of floods, (though in Glasnevin we don't see that much of the actual rain) and it was not tempting to be out and about. Might as well be sitting at the computer solving all those little quirky problems that trying to accomplish anything places in your path, and singing.

I decided to have my own recording label, Glossneen. Well, the leading labels were hardly looking out for me.

All in all, I feel more lively and purposeful as a result. I thank my dream for calling attention to my ego deficit.

Saturday, 1 February 2020

It's in rhe Air!

Well, it seems that it is "in the air" and that this fact is due to "the time of the year." (I mean my "Pierce Wise" dream, and its interpretation, in my last two Dream Diary posts).

I have just heard of a ninety-five year old woman who, on the day of my Pierce Wise dream, surprised everybody by taking a taxi into town, and staying overnight in a hotel.

This adventure was obviously a gesture to demonstrate that she was still an independent personality, just as my dream was a call by my subconscious to my Ego to re-assert mine.

It is in the air because of the time of the year. Today is the feast day of the "Matron Saint" of Ireland, Saint Brigid. This saint is thousands of years older than Christianity; and "Saint Brigid's Day," or the ancient "Brídeog," announces Spring. Today, grass starts to grow and the birds come out to sing. There is a feeling of waking up (in Ireland anyway: other European countries may be later). It is probably the little bit of extra day-light that wakens us up.

You don't have to be elderly to experience this re-enlivenment. Indeed, I experienced a similar emotion when I was 12, and wrote a poem in Irish expressing it:
Nuair a thagann Féil' Bríde,
Nuair ' imíonn an Geimhreadh,
Deir guth im' chroí
Gur breá bheith beo.

Tig fás le féar;
Tig úire san aer,
Giorracht san oíche
Is fad sa ló.

Bíonn gach rud meidhreach
San Earrach aerach;
Éirionn an ghrian
Agus scaipeann an ceo.

This translates as:

When Bridget's Feast comes,
When Winter goes,
A voice in my heart
Says its wonderful to be alive.

Growth comes to grass;
Freshness comes to air,
Shortness to night
And length to day.

Everything is merry
In the airy Spring;
The sun rises
And the fog disperses.
Of course, the fog that disperses is the winter gloom we have felt throughout December and January. In recent years, I have re-written this poem as The First of Feb.

Today is bitter cold, as we would wish St Brigid's day to be. This is because bitter weather is necessary for a few days more to kill off the Hag who governed during the dark days in order to allow the young Princess Brigid to rule. Otherwise, according to folk observation over hundreds of years, the hag of winter will re-assert herself later in February and March.