Kennys.ie Blogs Syndication

There is no such thing as Forgetting

2013-06-12T09:44:29+01:00

It is almost impossible for somebody who has been lucky enough not to have experienced the savage infliction of Alzheimer’s at first hand to understand just how devastating this horrible disease can be. It is all the more insidious because, insofar as I understand it, the person with Alzheimer’s often firmly believes that he or she is in the whole of their health. The real sufferers are the victim’s loved ones who watch their beloved literally disappear before their eyes while to the outside world the person is leading a perfectly normal life.

For the last four years or so, the Recession has dominated the Media. The prevalent mood has been anger with the Blame Game taking pride of place. While there is a solid justification for this, it can become a little overbearing especially when the “Holier Than Thou” syndrome emerges and the “Finger Pointing” becomes something of a witch hunt.

Hey Mister Teacher Man

2013-06-06T10:33:22+01:00

About five years ago. I received an e-mail from a Dutch customer who wanted to know if we could supply forty two copies of a single Mills and Boons title. Having sourced and supplied the forty two copies, I asked him out of sheer curiosity why he wanted them.

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer

2013-06-06T10:17:24+01:00

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Mother sometimes articulated a memory of a Friday evening sometime during the early 50s when a young girl and boy entered the shop and spent the afternoon there. Shortly after she had opened the following day, the pair reappeared. When, towards the end of the day, the girl, “who had the most beautiful auburn hair”, came to the counter to finalise her purchases, mother, by way of pleasant conversation, asked her what she was doing with herself, the reply came without hesitation and with a great deal of conviction: “I am training”, she said “to be a writer”.

There is a memory of a man in a� packed Irish bar somewhere in Boston sometime around 1990 on a Sunday afternoon during a lively session who, totally ignoring all that was going on around him, threw his head back and sang his song to the ceiling. Every sinew, muscle and syllable spoke of the rocks and headlands of Connemara or Aran and whether his song was of joy or of sorrow – for in the general din it was impossible to hear him – he exuded such a strong sense of place that anyone there who witnessed the moment was transported to a bar in Carraroe or Kilronan.

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Trying to write about Jazz is a bit like trying to paint Connemara. In both instances the subject is so elusive that to describe it conclusively on either paper or canvas is nigh near impossible and the writer or artist is reduced to focusing on an individual moment that most responds to or echoes their personal or artistic talent. In both cases this is due to their elemental nature and their absolute refusal to be artificially moulded into a definite entity.