Have you ever wanted to kill your wife, or your sister, or for that matter your children? JOURNAL ENTRY NR. 2

My mother, who I never really had a decent conversation with, hung herself just above my Cot the Friday after Good Friday, which happened to be the day after my one week baptismal anniversary. It was and still is the only action I have ever understood from any member of my family.

It's been fifty six years since that terrible moment. Fifty six life-times later and I am still acutely conscious of all the dangers lurking inside of me. I have repeatedly been tarred and feathered by my leather wielding conscience, unable to live without creating death, evolving into an extremely unstable animal human, capable of almost any unspeakable act on even those closest to me.

Have you ever wanted to kill your wife, or your sister, or for that matter your children?. Did the thought ever cross your mind that rather than being crazy, you are in fact perfectly within your rights to hurt anyone you like?. There is no one among us good enough, bold enough, precious enough to be worthy of life. Indeed, if there was ever an organism capable of being justifiably alive then I sure hope I never have the misfortune of seeing it. I would surely kill such a thing in the most brutal of ways. I mean, far greater beings have exited this place for far lesser reasons. As if one needed a reason, they don't, I don't. I got all the evidence I need every time I turn on the news. Every time I relive the bruises of my youth. You fucking pigs, you insensitive rats - look what you have created.

THE TOWN LAND OF KILLARNEY AND THE VIPERS - JOURNAL ENTRY NR. 1

In a tiny church not far from the town-land of Killarney, they presented me with the label ' Michael Francis O' Rourke'. I recall looking down at the baptismal fountain, then staring up at the church ceiling, forgetting why God had insisted that I be certified under such an evil looking statue of The Mother. I stared at my own mother, who by that stage was so worn that I couldn't distinguish her eyes from her face. I got a feeling all was not right with her, that there was a huge gaping hole in her reasoning. That she, like so many others of her generation, had been given the finger by those who should have known better.

At that very moment the statue of our lady hissed like a startled viper, her tiny red tongue covered by a black mole, her neatly arranged teeth joined perfectly together like a French Jumeau. Her white eyes turning black as a badgers nose. I began weeping for my mother, then for the others, shuddering intensely in my white cotton blanket. I was only two weeks old, but already 'Sold' was stamped just under the serial number on my already defective Soul. Four hours after the exchange with Jesus, I was thrown into a tiny blue cot by my already drunk father. Left alone in a haze of insecurities, wondering intangible equations, mesmerized to the point of being patronized, stunned at the facts as they presented themselves before me. My life would never have any meaning until I crossed the hedgerows of my youth, entering a place I now call Sycamore Gates, somehow limping down the road to adulthood, into my fifty-sixth year, where despair and denial have become my staple diet of choice for breakfast, dinner and supper.


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