In an Irish bar I observe the women coming, in hopeful hats and the women without such adornment come and handle their static ridden hair capturing the golden or auburn or manufactured color of the same in a 16 cent band. We watch, don’t we? And we intrinsically understand the power of Samson? And don’t we see that the touch of ones own strands is evocative in the primal and viral understanding that in lies some hidden power that you may or may not know if you could only grab a hank.
And the men with their sweet archaic brogues which sugar coat their words with a sweet scent so that we pretend to misunderstand the boorishness or look shyly aside at their meaning.
This is what it is to be alone. In this life having the promise of emerald isles on foreign tongues but not allowing a translation from brain to loin.
And I who bore one beautiful child who has flown the nest am now as I was in the state of perfect aloneness inside this beer strewn space. Smelling the air as a wolf in a distant field and returning to my den satisfied that nothing here will constrict my existence. And meeting at the door this dog who keeps me honest and accountable to his bladder who beckons me home in time to escape some irretractable mistake so he can prance out into the winter chill and do as he must.
And won't we all, the women and the men, dance on the wings of the wind if not together than yet alone.
Well spoken, Lass. But legend says that for one day in each life, when the May mists are in the Gloamin', and the wind runs its tender fingers through the heather on the hill, then romance may suddenly bloom in the most miraculous way.
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