RiverCityIrish

A journey through the Irish language with Des Bishop.

Mon, 23 Apr 2012 08:04:10 -0500

A journey through the Irish language with Des Bishop.

Muggy morning in the River City. The air is a wet blanket, a real mosquito paradise. Give me a...

Thu, 15 Mar 2012 06:22:40 -0500

Muggy morning in the River City. The air is a wet blanket, a real mosquito paradise. Give me a shout if you’re in San Antonio, or if you wish you were here.

Weather Forecast San Antonio, TX | San Antonio Weather | Wunderground

Sat, 03 Mar 2012 07:59:15 -0600

Weather Forecast San Antonio, TX | San Antonio Weather | Wunderground:

The weather is fine. Time to play Irish football. 500 Devine Rd., San Antonio, TX; come on out.

Domestic violence

Sun, 26 Feb 2012 20:14:34 -0600

“Don’t look at me,” he said.

“I’m not looking at you, I’m looking at the TV.”

“Whatever.” He shriveled into himself. She thought his face was melting.

“Listen, I don’t know what the deal is. I really want to know,” her voice was high, and she shook her head a little. She shifted forward and the couch creaked. He was like a cushion, or trying to be one. He said nothing. She leaned back. He clicked the TV on and turned it up. The voices honked and buzzed. She huffed.

“You don’t try,” he said then retreated. She glared at him through her bangs and he didn’t see. She dug her fingernails deep into the fibers of the couch.

“I’m going to kill you,” escaped her lips. Then she did.

The neighbors awoke to a dog barking.

20 Distinguished Writers and Their Drink of Choice | University Reviews Online

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 21:25:25 -0600

20 Distinguished Writers and Their Drink of Choice | University Reviews Online

The Painted Lady: The Minimalist

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 20:44:47 -0600

The Painted Lady: The Minimalist :

kristineism:

“Ernest Hemingway is a minamalist,” my teacher said pacing the room, “when he writes, he doesn’t just come out and say things. You need to practice reading between the lines. It’s always about the small stuff.”

She was right. The small stuff is usually magnified ten fold. Haven’t you ever once…

Casa Hemingway

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 20:28:04 -0600

Casa Hemingway

Connect with me

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 21:56:55 -0600

If you enjoy RIVERCITYIRISH, please use the toolbar on the bottom of my page to “Like” me on Facebook and Twitter or subscribe to the RCI RSS feed. Also click “Tell me a story” on the RCI Tumblr page to connect with me directly. RIVERCITYIRISH stands behind everyone with links to an immigrant past; which covers pretty much everyone in America. Irish, German, Polish, Mexican, Italian, French, whatever blood you may have, be proud. We built this country and will continue to do so, one brick at a time. We all came from somewhere.

Séasán

organic-chemistry: coffee (by zsoltKudar)

Fri, 24 Feb 2012 08:42:18 -0600

organic-chemistry:

coffee (by zsoltKudar)

Photo

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:04:00 -0600

Royal de luxe

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:03:20 -0600

Royal de luxe

Photo

Thu, 23 Feb 2012 19:00:25 -0600

Man on a bench.

Wed, 22 Feb 2012 21:17:21 -0600

He sat on the bench staring into the sky. The clouds drifted and his eyes followed. A girl ran by, down the gray cement path snaking around the trees. Birds chirped and pruned their feathers, the lot of them sounding like raindrops. He turned to look towards the sound of a dog barking and felt the wind touch his neck. A memory from childhood sprang into his mind but he could not pinpoint it. Something with sand and a spray of water. He could hear his mother laughing. A man tugged his dog’s leash trying to lead it away. The man on the bench strained his eyes and smiled. Someone turned the page of a newspaper, possibly the Journal. The man wondered what the scores were, but had forgotten a paper of his own. It sat on the corner of the counter. He shook out the thought and relaxed his brow. He breathed a deep breath, puffing out his chest and closed his eyes. The world could melt this way. He let the breath out in a rush. He felt something on his neck again but not the wind. He opened his eyes. Staring up at him were two large eyes and they belonged to a child. The child was all pale skin and tangled hair. He had three freckles on each cheek. His legs kicked while dangling from the bench.

“Where’d you come from, child?” The child shrugged. ”That your Da?” The child shook his head. The man on the bench squinted and tapped the end of his nose with a finger. He took off his hat and set it in his lap. ”You’re a quiet lad. Didn’t see you there.” The boy was gone. The man blinked at the empty bench. He put his hat back on his head. The wind was chilling his thinning hair. He let out a single toned whistle and leaned back. HIs shoulders felt heavy. He looked back out into the sky. The clouds drifted and his eyes just followed.

Lonely life

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 19:41:00 -0600

Certainly I owe something tonight, though I am drained and ragged. They say this writing life is a lonely life, and I say that writing is lonely, but the life is not. Like any other job there are hours to be sacrificed to the vocation, and it is of God and for God. I wake up, wave goodbye to the family and go about my work, lunch pale in hand. This is the life, like any other, and it is lonely like any other. I know that writers tend to be the hyper-dramatic introvert, whereas an actor is the hyper-dramatic extrovert by contrast, and they love to inflate themselves with a picture painted in gray of the lonely artist walking a beat. If that is for you, then so it is, and I love that you love that. For me I take a more practical approach. I am a working man, have worked all my life in one form or another, and when I get dressed for work and look at my family sound asleep, I feel lonely. In the throws of work I feel nothing, but if I were to feel it would be lonesomeness. When I look at the clock prior to quitting time, I yearn to be home, greeted like a rock star by my Poltergeist. If the lonely life image is what turns someone away from writing then I must announced that it can be applied in many ways: The salesman’s life is a lonely life; the teacher’s life is a lonely life; the grocer’s life is a lonely life; the Soldier’s life is a lonely life; and the writer’s life is a lonely life. The men and women who work, work in a lonesome condition, separated from the one’s they love in order to harvest their crop. Again, we all sacrifice, and I hope that one day I sacrifice for my vocation. It is not less lonely to do so, only more fulfilling of a yoke.

Codladh Sámh

the Wolfe Tones, “The Fighting 69th”

Tue, 21 Feb 2012 19:29:29 -0600

the Wolfe Tones, “The Fighting 69th”

Ernest Hemingway.

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 13:04:05 -0600

Ernest Hemingway.

More than a man can take

Mon, 20 Feb 2012 12:03:40 -0600

All around him was death. The ends of the blades of grass were on fire. He just stood frozen, like a melting statue. The air was not air but fumes and hell. The signature of the dark men was all around, bullet holes in everything. To Ernie, this must have been their masterpiece, but somewhere inside he knew that to men like those, this was but a scrap paper. At his feet the dirt was blood pudding, the life-juice spilled but never soaking into the earth. It would never soak into the earth. Red and blue lights sprinkled the scene, making colors turn to something sickening. They loaded the little body into the back of the bus draped in a sheet, a ghost upon the cart. Gun powder was still lingering, tickling Ernie’s nose hairs. The police were stringing up yellow tape, voices blurred together into incomprehensible brown tones, and the world was all a twisted circus. They would question him, maybe had questioned him already, but he only stood there. His boy was loaded into an ambulance, covered in the cloak of death, which was white, not black like in the stories. He wanted to ride with him, then didn’t want to ride with him. He wanted to run away, through the woods, dive into the lake and float until his flesh became soft and dripped to the bottom.

“Where is he?”

“He was standing right here, Sergeant.”

“No one was watching him?” The Sergeant put his hands on his hips.

“We were…”

“We have to get his statement. He saw everything.” He shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. ”He saw his boy go down.” The medics rushed up, feet crunching in the ash of lawn.

“Can’t call him, but he’s not gonna pull through. We need to take off.”

“Yeah, dad is gone. Must have taken off in the chaos. Need to find him, he’s probably not in a good place right now. Need to protect him from himself.” The medics departed in a rush of slamming doors. ”Get some cars out there. Get some officers into the woods.” He climbed into his car, the old rust-bucket with paint to match its decay. Detective Sergeant de la Cruz was twisted up inside from this one. He needed sleep, but needed to find Ernie Hanrahan’s wife more. She was out of town, with her parents, and didn’t even know that her son was a flesh puddle now. Quite a drive south to Laredo, but he wasn’t going to have some pimple-faced patrol officer breaking the news sounding like a pizza delivery guy. He cranked his car up, shifted into gear and pushed the accelerator. The tires crunched over ruins. Fire still licked the yard, the house was a black smear and it smelled like a butcher shop. No, there would be little sleep tonight, for many folks in this quiet town.

Great GAA video.

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 18:50:33 -0600

Great GAA video.

St. Brigid of Kildare.

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 18:37:00 -0600

St. Brigid of Kildare.

The Pogues, “Fairytale of New York.”

Sun, 19 Feb 2012 17:45:59 -0600

The Pogues, “Fairytale of New York.”