The land of the living and the land of the past!

Time slips past, the night falls dark and heavy her darkened skies and dampened air breath deep, reach out and touch the very soul and core of man, her shadows dance and play, her winds howl like wolves in the dead of night, her chill grips far and wild drawing the very breath from my lips, pounding deep with in my heart, my mind, my body and my soul.

Back now from Ireland and hours away from my big interview, my mind more positive than before, but still my heart beats, I need this chance, I need this job. My life like clay now lays in the hands of another, this chance for me is more than just a job, more than just a means to draw me from this mess, this job is the one thing that I want, and one I can do well, not only for the sake of moneys call, but for me, it puts me back where passion calls and fresh blood boils, it makes a difference on the streets, to lives, and to this cruel world. I need to sell out my soul to win my soul, and sell myself.

My time in Ireland now ended, plays upon my mind, fuel for thought and do those fires rage! My thoughts so long deprived of stimuli, now rage deep and dark into the dead of night, such a deep and yet undiscovered place, reaped with history and such dark deeds that chill the very mind of all who walk her streets and take the time to stand and stare, listen to the pasts long heart beat, see the lines that fall so weak between the land of the living and the land of the dead, for tomorrow is but a dream of yesterday, falling on the shadows of what once was and what is to be.

Standing in the streets of Dublin city, outside the GPO watching the world of today pass through the shadows of yesterday, watching the land of the living walk through the land of the dead. The walls abound with bullet holes, the soils beneath stained with the blood of the dead and the dying, of yesterdays fair call, I could not help but feel moved, feel like I could close my eyes and step back through the thin vail that guards time, back in to the land of the dead. Closing my eyes, I could almost taste the hot blood metal of yesterday, as bullets flew, cutting through flesh, warm like a knife passing through butter, imprinting themselves in the walls of the GPO for eternity sake, all in the name of the freedom that the future forgot. In the hustle and bustle of today, in the speed and the pace, in the lost memory’s of bills unpaid, in the worry of this and that, I could hear the call of the dead and the wounded, the dying and the deceased. Watching the people pass by on fine slabs of pavement, and articulate bedding plants, decorations of the sublime and the minimal, watching them walk on now covered soils of the blood of yesterday all in the name of a freedom, that some how lost his way.

Beyond the today and tomorrow, beyond the square and the river, the river that too fills her shores with the blood of the dead and the dying, that sails on the winds of the suffering, that basks in the light of the gone, behind all this, hidden from view by the paper that cover the cracks, lays the old Dublin city, its walls too bear the scares of the past, though no longer covered with fancy tokens of today, but empty and boarded, haunted by ghosts of the yesterday who suffer and scream in the night tucked away in these streets the past too has a story to tell of the weak and the suffering, the lost and the dead. An old grave yard hidden behind the walls of the prison, that bears the scares of the death’s of those that Easter day who rose from the ash’s to buckle the system, that deems itself fair, deems itself just. An old man, full of Irish history calls and talks, he tells of the suffering, the lost and the dead, not the heroic or brave, the every day man, who labours his cause for the shilling. He tells of the plight of the men unknown, he tells of the poverty that lays on the street. He tells of the peasants who couldnt afford clothes and wore the uniforms of the doomed, he tells how they sit in a bar, having a draught of their famous ale, laughing and joking round a table of old, when in walk the men, sent by the fair and the just, wearing too uniforms, just of more vigor, black and tan, were their colours. He tells how our peasants, unable to afford their own clothes, mistaken for others, or may be just the representation of the cruelty of man, were rounded up like cattle and marched to the square, where the mud and the rain all mingled as one, and were butchered like cattle, kicked to there deaths whilst stabbed and slashed on her majesty’s justice, he tells how the soils flowed with blood, the body’s once more to nature they fell…..O he tells of the suffering and plight, the unknown graves of the unknown men, who had not the money to buy there own clothes, he tells of a story that echo’s the future, he tells of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, through the lines of the past and the blood of the innocent. Though he does not know, he tells of today through the veins of the blood of the past.

For the first time in an age, I felt an over whelming compulsion to step into a church of the past, where once as a child angelic family portrait held, smiling faces that hid the scars and the rot, I returned to the house of God. Though the chant was high, and the church strange, the feeling I held gripped me strong. The icons surround, like the bullet holes lost in the past, brought to the future in Dublin square, but here filled with love, devotion and prayer, each brush stroke holds a prayer of the artist, each part one whole, each part a story of its own. I stood and listened to the chant, felt the power of the heart beat, that for so long I have forgotten, and felt a sence of warmth, a welcome and a call from old, a feeling that stayed with me through out the day. Many things have I done, many skeletons lay hidden in my closet as I move from place to place as I battle a world that I do not understand, I would never say that I am a good person, nor am I a big god lover, but somehow, I felt I had come home and a welcome lay before me. People reading this can judge, people who know me can judge by the scares on my knuckles, the red blood that boils in my veins, the fear I protrude, the gun or the knife, the hardness of me. They can judge by yesterday or tomorrows deeds, but that feeling, was more real than any I have known in so long, for that short time I stood and I listened, I stood and I looked, I stood and I prayed, I felt a hand on my shoulder and a light in the darkness of me.

I know there are changes I need to make, its hard, but I have kind of mixed myself up in the land of the living, yet lost in the land of the dead.


~ by Duma Key on November 20, 2009.

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