How come its always him who fucks up

So fucking angry.
The rage.
About to explode.
Temper.
Such a fucking stupid cunt.
ruined everything.
Its all fucking ruined.
AAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHH

OK, calm.

Calmer.
Angry, Why?
Untill just a while
all was perfect.
So happy.
So looking forward to the future.
To giving her the surprise.
Appearing.
Her seeing me,
her seeing all of us.
Together,
there for her.
It would have been perfect,
would have been.
I know how magic
it would have been
because I did it before.
Back in a darker time,
when she really needed it.
Back when her own mother died.
A time when again
it was him who fucked up.
Out of contact.
Out of communication.
Caught up in his own shite.
Selfish cunt.
That time it was Berlin,
boppin` around the streets
for the Berlin love parade.
BOM BOM BOM
Gaudi Gaudi Gaudi
Spass Spass Spass
I knew she was sick
I knew she was dying
I didn`t return
I was enroute to India
I`d said my goodbyes.

I remember that birthday,
the time I was Borrissed,
along with Aislinn and Katie:
stuck in the middle of
Borris in Fucking Ossary.
Last bus missed,
out on the streets,
hitching.
And me in my tux,
hitching.
And it the first day of snow,
hitching.
But we got there,
somehow.
Colder, Tireder, a lot later,
But we got there.
Home.
Into Lahinch, at some late hour.
After that last hitch from Ennis.
Into the gaf.
Kettle on.
Table brought near couch.
Blankets, douvets, sleeping bags,
anything for warmth.
3 glasses.
Whiskey.
Uisce beatha.
Warmth.
Back to life.

Next day,
the three of over to Grannies
and my birthday party,
the best ever.
The four of us sharing our animal bar,
and them singing happy birthday.
Me laughing and loving it all.
But then the strangest of feelings:
the feeling of sheer sadness,
the feeling of loss.
I knew she was going.
I knew she`d be gone.
It hit me.
I stopped the smiling.
I looked at her.
I loved her so much.
I looked into her eyes.
I gently held and kissed her head
and said "Goodbye Granny".
I burst out outside and cried.
Overcome with feeling.
Not sure if I`d ever see her again.
Such a strange birthday.

I`d said my goodbyes
I knew she was dying
and I was off boppin` in Berlin.
They tried to contact me,
tried desperately to get me somehow,
anyway at all.
They couldn`t.
She died.

Some time later and back in Munich,
I called home.
I was told the news,
she`d gone.
They were waking her now.
I didn`t return.
Should I have?
work work work
arbeit arbeit arbeit
gelt gelt gelt
Saving to get to India.
Working my hole off,
two jobs.
work work work
6.30 start,
freezing,
Spaten, the brewery,
2.30 end.
4.30, Westpark, the beer garden.
11 or 12, home, shattered, sleep.

But Mam was in pieces.
Lost.
Maybe she still is?
just that she deals with it better now.
Her mother had left her.

How I remember all the tears.
Us in the car,
back to Dublin.
Dirty Dirty Dublin.
And her,
crying crying crying
And Granny there,
outside the gate,
waving goodbye.
"See you Granny. Love you, see you soon"
And her,
Mam,
with her tears flowing down
her face red with the pain,
the pain of having to say goodbye again.

There were 5 of them,
that i know of anyway.
First to the States,
next to Canada,
next to England,
her to Dublin
and the last, Pat,
the oldest boy,
left to work the farm.
Such was the way though.
Ireland,
only one generation ago.
How the times have changed.
We used be 9 million,
then down to 2,
thanks to our neighbours
near successful attempts at genocide.
Then back up,
3,
to 4
and soon to be 5.
So many had to leave.
So many wanted to remain.
So many couldn`t.
The American wake,
saying their goodbyes
to the lad off over the water.
They knew he`d never be back.
How hard it must have been.
That was the way though.
Such a fucking place to be.

But look how much its changed.
Everyone flying everywhere,
but knowing nowhere really.
Everyone e-mailing everyone,
but knowing noone really.
So much shite.
How much they`ve forgotten.
How much they`ve lost.
That which was so strong,
so pure,
so simple;
Spirit.
That, which yesterday could never be beaten;
Spirit.
The spirit to survive,
to stand up for whats right,
the spirit to simply exist.
But look at it today;
going, going, gone.
Look at those battling up in Rossport today,
who gives a fuck.
Modern Ireland and her tiger cubs,
Christ, how it makes me sick.

I`d said my goodbyes.
I didn`t return.
But Mam got worse,
down and down.
And even further still,
down and down.
The months mind was appraoching.
A full month from the time of death,
part of the grieving process.
I told no-one.
It was my secret,
my special secret.
My present to her.
To say nothing
and return
To give her that lift.
That lift,
I knew she needed so bad.

I got home,
back to the smoke
and into Busarus.
An hour or 2 wait
and onto the bus.
One side of hte island to the other.
Finally into Lahinch,
Home.
I went up the old back road,
Station road.
The farmhouse,
Home,
as she always called it:
"Over home".
I sat on the wall,
Sat there a fair while,
saying nothing.
Remembering.
Silently saying my goodbyes.
I should have been there.
I got up and left for our own house,
not sure if they`d still be up.
I went around the back.
I could see them.
They couldn`t see me.
The two of them,
Mam and Dad,
together,
and her looking so sad.
And then I appeared.
I came right up to the back door,
knocked and she turned.
The look of disbelief.
Her face dropped.
And Dad too,
never one for too much emotion,
but how he hugged me:
"Its fucking great to see you"
and he meant it.
And her crying.
Tears of loss,
but mixed now
with tears of joy.
We hugged,
we talked,
we drank wine.
Together.
Family.
There for each other,
and it did work
it did help
she came up.
She dealt with the death.
She still talks to them,
her mother and father.
Asking them to mind me,
to take care of me
to not let me fall into danger.
And it worked.
Thanks to them,
thanks to her
Im here now
"This is Paradise",
said one of the Danish girls
the other night in placa de Play.
And so it was.
So this time day after tomorow
I`ll see her.

How looking forward I was to it.
Being there for her,
she hadn`t a clue.
It was going to be so great.
But then a careless email
to one who was a friend
but who drifted away.
Wasn`t even going to send it
Wasn`t even goingn to let him
and the others like him
know I`d be home.
But I did send it.
And he went and called her
"Whens Duncan coming home?"
Fucked it all up.
Christ I was angry.
Raging when i read it.
But it happened.

"Lessons learned",
was the fathers reply.
He says its OK,
but its not.
It wont be the same,
He's right though,
Its always me.
"How come its always you.
Always you
who has to fuck it all up?"
I dont know.
I try.
Christ, how I try.
But I fuck up so much.
Thoughtless, stupid, lost
Fucking shit up.

Anyway, calm.
Whats done is done.
2 days and I`ll be home.
The west coast of Clare,
where the land meets the sea.
How I was looking forward to it:
the surprise.
How great it was going to be.
How perfect it was going to be.
How much i`d thought, written, drawn
getting ready,
to surprise her.
And to give her her presents:
the 350 pags I wrote for her:
"Funny old world".
How happy I was
writing all those pages for her.

Turning 60 is a big thing in India:
leaving the old life behind
and begining the last and most important chapter:
getting ready to say goodbye.
Why not do it here too?

"I dont understand your world"
She always says.
Maybe with that book she might
or with the other one,
her other present:
"Scéal Beatha",
the story of life.
And I`ve still so much more
to do on that one.
But cant now,
that im in this rage.
Anyway
We`ll see
We`ll still eat, laugh, hug, cry, drink
and be merry.
But will it be
that which it could have been,
the great surprise.
Before a careless act
went and fucked things up again.

Will it be?
It will be.
Inshallah

1 of the stories from stories from the sea