Catfish Tales

Dial 'A' for Alibi - Mag 105

2012-02-19T21:56:00.000+01:00

©2012 Shers Gallagher

The phone booth had been Susan’s excuse, she’d thought. It was her alibi fornot being home when her husband was murdered with the semi-automatic he’d kept inhis desk drawer to ward off burglars. The only problem was that no one saw Susanmake that call. Neither was Jake, the man she’d been phoning, around to answer it.Usually Sue had her mobile with her, or at least it was in close proximity. But she’d simplyforgotten it in her mad dash to leave home, purse in hand andheading for the local pub. The Pheasant’s Quill served a gin and tonic in one of those crystal fluted chilled glasses that she loved so much. And, after five years ofsobriety, she felt thirsty again, really thirsty.

Jakewas Susan’s AA sponsor, she later informed the police. And, beforehand, it took less than tenminutes of walking in the crisp evening air to begin questioning her motives. Whygive up all that sobriety, she pondered, when it's just as easy file for divorce? Whythrow away all those good years of being clean and clear-headed in one moment's fit of rage?

Theonly problem was that Jake had been walking his dog when Susan phoned. He too had no mobile with him, not thinking to take anything but a set of house keys for the hound's quick scratchand sniff. What a sad set of circumstances, he thought afterwards, circumstancesthat give her story such vague credibility.

Jake had come back to the booth he’d cycled to several times already that day. With flash-light tracing the cornercracks of the tiny cubicle, he waslooking for some kind of clue that would clear Susan’s name. In the end, he found himself thumbing through the dog-earedgrime of Yellow and White Pages chained to a metal plaque for something, anything….but nothing. Heshot the light to where dusty side-walk met dirt and grass, scouring the landscapeseveral metres out and around. Again, there was nothing but him, his bikeand the lonely little booth between still earth and blinking skylight. Jakeknew Susan didn’t shoot her husband. He also knew Edward to be one of thoseborderline individuals who one day you’d greet with a smile and wave; another day, he’d ignore you altogether, even giving you the cold shoulderin passing.

When she couldn’t reach Jake, Susan continued on her way till reaching the pub and hesitating, even trying the door before thinking better andturning around for home. There’d been no one on the street she could tell the police who'd vouch for her whereabouts. This too was a great pity as, returning home, she spied her husband's body lying in a pool of blood next to a silver pistol she recognised as his own. When the police later told her that only his and her prints were found on it, she found she was craving that drink again. But no drinks exceptingwater flat from the tap were served in the station's holding tank.

Susan was allowed one callbesides the one placed to the family lawyer, and this was when she finally gota hold of Jake....

Aisling Books - Magpie Tales

In a World - Mag 104

2012-02-12T14:10:00.003+01:00

In a world of black and white

it's love that fuses the sublime

into one channel programmed to colour.

Aisling Books - Magpie Tales

Uncommon Jeweller - Mag 103

2012-02-05T21:15:00.001+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 2012

Floating over my top bunk, as comically as any fictive creature, it held a hand out to me. This hand was draped in darkness, I saw, its slaty palm offering what looked at first glance to be tiny pulsating hearts. No, they were blood stones, and they shimmered through my vision like refracted light dripping from falling stars, falling into chasms of obscurity. I froze like an animal caught by the beauty of the beaming unknown. Danger, danger! The desire of the momentary unspeakable was grasping my soul. And I was going down, feeling the descent. ‘Help me! Help me! Help me!’ I cried, feeling the power within, the power of ‘no’.

And the creature vanished, but not before leaving me with a pounding in my head. So excruciating was it that I felt faint with nausea. I lay back down, shuddering slowly and full of DT’s.

The girl in the bunk beneath mine hadn’t made it through the night. I glimpsed her the next morning, her icy smile formed from bluing lips that leaked a drool not unlike the shimmer of blood stones.

I drew in my breath, gladdened at the life of it and saddened at the loss of the girl below. I was thinking of the dead in their uncommon slumber when I noticed her balled up fist, which held fast to only air as rigormortis began to set in.

Aisling Books
Magpie Tales

I wouldn’t call it a ‘national disaster’ but it was definitely chaos

2012-02-05T10:32:00.002+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 05 February 2012

“The Prime Minister just declared it a national disaster, our rail system today.“

I looked across at the passenger from Sweden who was sitting with me, travel worn and constantly checking her iPhone for the latest news of our railway debacle that morning and afternoon. Her story was worse than mine, bumping from Sprinter car to Sprinter car with no intercity trains running due to frozen switches and other electrics, along with trains stranded between stations. She’d left Paris, France at five a.m. yesterday, Saturday, with the Thalys rail line that had broken down in Antwerp, Belgium. “There had been smells of electric smoke filling our cabin when we stopped and they told everyone to get out. Then we waited for at least a half hour until another line could pick us up and take us into Holland.”

She had worked with world relief organisations all over the world. I had been an international teacher in developing countries. To us this was not a national disaster. It was yet another huge screw-up of a system that knew this ten-day cold snap was coming. But did they prepare for it?

When I left my southernmost Dutch peninsula for my usual route to work for a testing agency in North Holland I did so with an hour to spare. I always do this simply because I don’t like stress, thinking I don’t handle it well and, thus, attempting to avoid it in all possible ways. I knew the trains were having a few delays on this frosty morning. My own was already fifteen minutes late, pulling into the station with everyone filling up each cabin, second class ticket holders filtering into first class with runny nosed children eating snacks, dogs barking and passengers talking loudly on mobiles. It was okay, though, as this wasn’t a normal day.

We were taken, not to my normal destination, but to Breda, which is in the interior of the country, as we’d heard no lines were running directly to Rotterdam, my connecting station to Utrecht. However, the train stopped in Roosendaal, where we were made to disembark for reasons unexplained to us and embark on another train on the opposite track. Arriving in Breda, the interior of the country, I stepped onto a platform that had turned into utter confusion. There I saw less than a handful of train conductors with their mobiles and free coffee looking perplexed, as they were giving out information that was changing from minute to minute. I found a Sprinter, which is a stop train, leaving for Rotterdam, and boarded in relief. However, it didn’t leave for 30 minutes. Still, at least I was on it. In Rotterdam we were dumped out on an uncovered and snowy platform. I felt sorry for the elderly walking and having to take the equally uncovered metal steps with suitcases and slippery shoes on their way to Schiphol Airport. That destination too had been rerouted, and people were taking all kinds of sub-routes hoping to arrive as close as possible to where they wanted and needed to go.

After receiving misinformation that took me to one platform where train scheduling boards announced cancellations of lines, I left for the main hall of confusion, which was a raised platform exposed on all sides excepting a covered roof. And I could look down on all the tracks, spotting a stop train running to Gouda. But the conductor there was standing in front of a stationary train, checking his iPhone and scratching his head. He told me no trains were running to Gouda at all. How could that be? How could that be?

I called my boss who was none too happy with tightly scheduled clients waiting to be tested. The decision was then made for all my candidates to go to another examiner and I go home. Go home? How? I asked the conductor if there were any buses scheduled to accommodate stranded passengers and was given the quick answer, “No, sorry.”

In frustration, I went to a platform kiosk, as an overhead voice on the loud speaker announced free coffee to all passengers travelling…’for all the troubles’, added the voice in closing. At the kiosk I found another conductor drinking coffee. “How could we have no lines running?” I said to him. He asked where I was going and told me there’d be a stop train running through my destination on track eleven. I hopped aboard the train and called my boss, asking if candidates would wait for me and I’d stay later. I wasn’t greeted too happily and was told it’d be unprofessional to take candidates back from one already testing them while telling them to wait for the examiner who had not yet arrived. I was also told to go home. But, but I was finally en-route to Utrecht.

When I arrived – after taking not just one, or even two, but a total of FIVE trains to reach my destination– it was two and a half hours past the time I’d been scheduled to do exams. All but two of my clients had been tested, and the other examiner had so graciously given me back the last. The boss too, having realised the national train fiasco, softened and gave me extra work to make up for my losses. Still, I was out a large chunk of needed income. It was five and a half hours later from the time of my starting point, a journey usually taking me two and a quarter hours. But I had arrived.

According to Saturday’s Dutch news, a journalist remarked: “Rail users’ organization Rover called on the minister to get tough on the NS for failing to provide proper information to passengers.
‘Last time they blamed special snowflakes, now it is hardened ice,’ spokesman Chris Vonk is quoted as saying in the Telegraaf. ‘Yet in the rest of Europe trains continue to operate without any problems whatever the temperature.’
The continuing freeze and remains of Friday's snow caused problems on the roads as well. Some 13 cars were involved in a pile-up on the A27 on Saturday afternoon, leading to long delays (Dutch News).

Child's Play - Magpie 102

2012-01-29T17:28:00.003+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 2012

…is what I thought
with untrained eyes that peered into a notion of hodgepodge,
deciding right then and there, being later corrected,
was ‘child’s play’.
"This," my primary teacher huffed and puffed,
"is what's called 'modern art'."

"But I can draw that!"
I protested in peep-like squeaks of pickled pubescence.
And so I did - well, something like that -
because I got hungry and ate the McIntosh
from a light brown bag that Mother always filled with such care,
folded napkin and all.

I ate the apple, tasting wickedly good in the rickety bus,
with full knowledge that it was not yet the hour to break for lunch.
I did this amidst the chalk and crayon smells of youth,
these mates of mine,
whose sacks were so dutifully closed and dripping of PBJ
and other Tutti-frutti tastes.

Ah, but they were so well-behaved, I thought,
me crunching away on forbidden fruit and listening to their inane prattle,
their happy screams that mingled so well with the gleefully sounding aide's,
her teeth filled up in cavities,
and she happily chanting: '99 bottles of beer on the wall’.

And the bus sped along in a mix of shifting gears, diesel exhaust and grazing cows,
which I eyed through a greasy-pawed window
while taking in the aroma of sweetened spring
as memories faded from what teacher called 'modern art' and its jumble of ‘design’.
But now it had been replaced with important thoughts
of extended recess upon our return
with more than enough time for child’s play.

Aisling Books

Magpie 102

He Did Not Go Gently: A tribute to my father

2012-01-24T11:29:00.003+01:00

A tribute to my father (d: 22 September 2002) - who did not go gently into that good night....

He lost his mother from cancer when he was 10 and was rejected by a vain father, who'd just remarried without telling his young bride he had three other children – all boys.

He lived on the streets during the Great Depression, camped nights at houses of those feeling sorry for him, delivered papers by day to theatre moguls such as Mr Mayor of Metro, Golden.... Never had time for self-pity and ate well balanced meals through boxed lunches by being an extra on film sets. Ate more by playing in the Farmers Market band till found out by the band leader that he was not only tone-deaf but couldn't play a single note of his horn on key.

Entered the Air Corps at the ripe old age of 17.5 years old. He'd crop dusted in his youth and knew how to fly but lied on an intake form, as the draft age was still 18. The US military was desperate for flyers at the tail-end of WWII. So they didn’t check their authentications too thoroughly in those days, and Dad became a flying ace from Newport to Cairo. Through no fault of his own, he once ended up abandoned with his men on a small raft at sea after his DC-3 went down with double engine failure.

Dad and his small crew of navigator, co-pilot and extra crewman were instant newspaper heroes when found three days later, all feeling they'd be adrift until they died until realizing their Mayday logistics had been miraculously heard and recorded.

No, he did not go gently into that good night. Dad was a difficult man in many ways, especially for children to know and understand. He didn’t have much patience for them, nor did he understand their silly ways. Yet, he was one true to his word and always a Maverick for a good cause. You would not want this man for an enemy. Yet, if he met you and liked the ‘cut of your jib’, he’d make you a terrific friend for life.

My father caused me a lot of pain growing up, but I loved him just the same.

Aisling Books

I remember the plums of Gran’s garden

2012-01-22T22:13:00.003+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 2012

Today is a croissant day…. But I remember Gran and those dark and fleshy Arcadian plums she so tenderly cultivated in her back garden.

And I thought then if the concept of sin secretly spelt ‘delicious’ that Gran’s plums should be added to its listing of the delectably forbidden. There was just something that would bring out that girlish giggle in the first bite that punctured taut sun-baked skin. Its sound not unlike a punctured bubble or popping cork, its sweet flesh dripping slightly tarty goo all down my cheek and neck. And it left a trail of soft, shimmering slime as unabashedly as a snail’s remains that glistened in moonlight but disappeared in the midday sun.

Aisling Books

Occupy My Aqua-seum! - Mag 100

2012-01-15T20:39:00.002+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 2012

I'm occupied within my interior
and decorated with barnacles
in protest of a quieter sea
while you are drowning on Wall Street
in that Promethean liver you call your life above.

Luminescent is the opaque glass of illusion
that you're forever clinging to,
its deceptions you try and capture each and every waking day
before dying in your sleep.
But I cannot be bothered into your stoic way of being,
that cheap coat you wear of ill-fitting disillusionment,
forever dripping a despair that turns into a bucketful of ocean roar.

Hour upon hour you ticker-tape so nervously -
one heart attack away from all your landlocked graves.
Yet, you never come to occupy my aqua-seum and see me as a puppeteer
who plays with shadows that dance across the silky sea
– so gently, so harmoniously – an existence that comes from being in-tune.

I hear your cries above me but only lift my head and sigh,
knowing that you no longer notice me.
Yet I know you and how you have once occupied my soul.
But today I'd rather occupy the solitude of sea urchins
and educate each school of fish that happens across my path.
Fitted to the gills are they, who now resonate my aqua-seum,
and I cater to them in my own aquatic way.

Aisling Books / Magpie Tales

Yul - the Cleaning Genie

2012-01-08T21:29:00.003+01:00

As a child I saw an advert for Mr Clean,
the cleaning genie.
I thought it was Yul polishing multi-surfaces, making them gleam.

When I saw 'The King and I'
I flashed on that cleaning genie gliding across the floor.

And he sure made it shine!

Magpie Tales 99

The Art of Silence

2011-12-27T20:32:00.004+01:00

Surely we glimpse heaven's window on earth if we slow up to time unmarked byany save the quiet soul.

For those who travel long tempos - slowing to ponderthe sights and sounds – the splintered light that basks on the simplest fallenlog. A breath caught in awe perhaps shall find a concerted brilliance thatothers geared to hyper drive pass over in a sneeze.

Is there then a purity of joy in the art of silence? Asimple wisdom found when hearing well turns into an art form?

For thus is the time when the warbling lark andtrilling thrush becomes a symphony conducted to an audience with ears that stopand listen, to souls who pay the price of minutes like spare change thrown in amusician’s cap to attend such a show of stillness.

Aisling Books

Beached Lamentation

2011-12-11T18:35:00.001+01:00

© Shers Gallagher 2011

YOU...
are my better half,
out there, somewhere.

But the boat drifts back to me,
empty as the lifeless breeze...
SIGH

Magpie Tales 95

My rogue Dad and the flying aces....What price would you NOW pay for your freedom?

2011-12-01T23:39:00.001+01:00

©ShersGallagher 2011

[C-54 landing at Templehof, Berlin, Germany]

Atthe tail-end of WWII, my young father, then unmarried pilot for the ArmyAir-corps, formed a lifelong bond with Irish-American twins, named George andCharlie Finn. The Berlin Blockade (1948-49) was a major international crisis ofthe Cold War, where the Soviets blocked the railway and road access of WesternAllies to the Berlin areas under allied control. They did this to allow theSoviet zone to supply Berlin with food and fuel that would give them control ofthe city. However, the Western Allies foiled their plans by organising theBerlin Airlift to carry supplies to the people of West Berlin. The Finnbrothers took part in this and became known as some of the 'flying aces' ofthat post-war period.

Shortlythereafter, these surplus planes were being dumped and sold on the free market;and my father told the twins of one in particular, an abandoned C-46 that hadbeen used as an extra classroom in a school-yard, which had come up for sale.They were delighted with their purchase only to soon be caught in the midst ofa government turn around in its decision to seize all surplus war planes in anationwide recall.

Thefollowing is a summary of the Finn’s determination to stand up to the Feds –and what they believed to be their inalienable rights as American citizens –after purchasing their plane through what they called 'a fair and square' openbid on the free market.

My father was instrumental in helping the twins fight their cause: in theircover up, sabotage and escape(s). However, since Dad was a young father at thetime, they kept his name out of the press. There was only one article'smentioning of my father's name as the one initially telling them of a C-46plane for sale. Then the article went on to discuss the Finns, theirimprisonment for not cooperating with the government’s demands and hungerstrike till their eventual release.

Iknew the Finns personally growing up, as they remained close mates of my Dad's.And throughout my life, I remembered them visiting and dining with our family.I was still quite young, but even then found them charming, especially the moregregarious twin named Charlie.

Andthis is just another colourful story of our family's past, which I thoughtyou'd enjoy reading about....

THE LAW AND THE FINN TWINS

Identical fliers take a plane to thedesert in an effort to convince the world that it belongs to them

“Thetwo brothers, Finn, 38-years-old identical twins named George and Charles,regarded themselves as rugged individualists being persecuted by fussy federalauthorities. The authorities regarded them as illegal possessors of a warsurplus C-46 which the Finns insisted they had legitimately bought. When acourt order was issued telling them to keep hands off the plane, one Finn wentto Bakersfield airport and flew away with the plane. The other, going intocourt, held up the wheels of justice for three days by refusing to say whichFinn he was. Twin No. 1 (claiming to be Charles) was discovered with the planeparked on the Nevada desert. George got out of court long enough to come spellhim as he stood guard with a pistol at his side to warn off prowling officersof the law. The law, however, kept grinding on in its bureaucratic way andsummoned George back to Los Angeles to stand trial for contempt of court andfor transporting a stolen air plane. Whatever happens on those counts, anothercourt has already granted to a Burbank firm a judgement for non-payment of$10,014.43 worth of maintenance and repair bills" (Life Magazine; February 16, 1953).

N.B.What isn’t mentioned here is how my dad took turns with Charlie, flying theplane to the desert, where they at first camouflaged it in an attempt to eludethe authorities. At one point, my dad flew to the outskirts of the prison,whereby Charlie scaled the wall unnoticed and replaced George, who made asuccessful escape with my dad at the helm of the cockpit. Charlie later claimedto prison authorities that they were holding the wrong twin, which wasconfirmed and prompted his immediate release. Some members of the pressbelieved the twins were involving themselves in dramatic gestures only to gainpublic notoriety. Yet, those delving further into the case realised that theFinns were more freedom fighters than publicity seekers. It was their staunchbelief – and my father’s too – that ‘when the government takes away the libertyand property of one man, it affects the liberty and property of all men’ (asquoted by the Finns in an article by Thaddeus Ashby; Faith and Freedom; vol. vii, nr.5, January 1956).

[George and Charlie at home in their C-46]

Ashby’ssummary in Faith and Freedom:“Standing in jail, the red sun-rays lighting up his face, George hadn’t thefaintest idea what desperate measures he and Charlie would take to get her[their plane] back. He would have been surprised to learn that he and hisbrother would make a ‘citizen’s arrest’ of a US Attorney, that they would go toprison, that they would almost die on a 23-day hunger strike, or that famedattorney Joseph Scott would ride to their rescue, or that the United StatesSenate would appoint a subcommittee to investigate the Finn case.”

*The Finns eventually won their case after making national headlines in the mid-to late 1950s. Oh, and they got their property back too!

Aisling Books

Love on a Pillow – Mag 92

2011-11-22T09:33:00.001+01:00

Loveon a Pillow – Mag 92
© Shers Gallagher 2011

Love on a pillow
is filled with downyfeathers.

Cloaked in soft linen, they prick and scratch
as they itch to be free.

I no longer believe in the love

that floats through the air on the whim of a breeze.

Magpie Tales creative writing group

Each member of the orchestra... ;-D

2011-11-08T08:19:00.000+01:00

'Each member of the orchestra plays his own little instrument, and what do you think he knows of the complicated harmonies which unroll themselves on the indifferent air? He is concerned only with his own small share. But he knows that the symphony is lovely, and though there's none to hear it, it is lovely still, and he is content to play his part' - Somerset Maugham; 'The Painted Veil'.

Shers on Irish FM radio - 'Death By Chopstick'

2011-06-15T08:49:00.000+02:00

Doing a radio interview with CRY 104 FM in County Cork, Ireland was great fun. I'd done another a few years ago when plugging Murder On The Rocks!, my murder mystery set in Youghal, Ireland. This time I spoke about a return to China that inspired Death By Chopstick, its sequel.

[featured in photo: Shers at Saint Johns with Zeeuws bookclub member, Jo de Jonge]

During this latest interview with the County Cork DJ, I found it slightly annoying when his voice would sometimes break up at my end, resulting in my having to pause to understand what he'd said. Otherwise, it had been air time I truly appreciated, giving me enough time with limited interruption to talk about my experiences in China and a few elements involved in the process of writing this sequel based, for the most part, in Beijing. Have a listen to the live broadcast, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did having been asked to do it primarily for an Irish audience...

He's got your number....

2011-06-09T14:59:00.000+02:00

['When considering a difficult decision, look ahead in your life toward the day when you will die, and consider: which option would I regret not doing most. Then the answer shall become clear' - Metta]

'Schindler's Ark' is the novel that the film 'Schindler's List' was based on; and, as I read it I flashed back to the Jewish community I grew up in. It had once been a California ranch area and still was, for the most part, while I was growing up. Though the families I knew were rich many still held scars and buried secrets in the closet, which I caught snippets of when seeing the remainders of camp tattoos on the inner arms of some of my friends' grandparents or older aunts and uncles. Some even told me blood curdling stories about those who made it out and others, the less fortunate, who didn't have a prayer.

Holland, where I live now, was one of the occupied countries hit hard with Jewish exportation to Auschwitz, Belzec and Dachau. In Amsterdam, we have our Anne Frank museum; and, Harleem, where Corrie ten Boom once lived.

And I've ridden train routes that were used during WWII to transport Jews to holding camps, such as the once concentration camp of Westerbork in Drenthe, which is in the NE of the Netherlands.

"He who saves a single life saves the entire world"
[Talmudic inscription quoted at the novel's end]

But just think.... It was only 66+ years ago, this wide scale inhumanity to mankind. And it's still going on wherever there's human trafficking around the world, continuing whenever and wherever we forget our humanness and treat one another as objects, names and numbers on a list.

A symphony of sorts

2011-01-15T12:25:00.021+01:00

It can sound immature and irksome

that I have learnt to play the fiddle,

but I simply love the way it glides across my tunes.
The rosin smells of heaven, its body full of leaven.
But there are those deciding I must give it up,
its screeching sounds must simply go away.
It is my voice they hear with pleasure,
a mere voice that sings at leisure
while learning chords and keys,
a voice they want to hear
while I practise in the wings.
And because of this I taunt them,
those who deem me worthy of their clapping
and harsh lights they snap into a face that cannot see.
I've become a fool who's been paid in empty encores
that come in handy 6-packs full of praise
while stagehand's compensate in bucketfuls of icy stares.
They are choking on their nicotine, their eyes like neon glares.
And I shall no more light them up with my amazing tunes.
I swear and shout above those clapping,
my threats so elocuted and exacting.
But they only hear me say
I'll no longer grace their stage.
Now on my grave I'm lying,
yet I'm not really dying.
I'm just rehearsing
for that final curtain call.
And in the sun's embracing
I find a warm erasing
of all that's past
and vexing to my soul.
It leaves me with simple wonder,
as it's not my day to go,
no, it's not my day to go.
Yet, I pause to think who'll miss me
when I am barely breathing,
tuned low and out of key?
For, in such a way,
I see that I'm a symphony of sorts,
who has played out life in confusing reverie.

http://www.aislingbooks.nl/

ARTISTS CORNER: When an artist suffers burn-out

2011-01-14T18:04:00.004+01:00

© Shers Gallagher 2011
There are times when inspiration wakes me, or just hits me, flowing as if it can't wait till I find a computer, camera, pencil or pen to capture it to claim as my own. I'm mostly an artist of verbiage, attempting to projecti word symbols into thoughts and feelings others can experience out of my moments of revelation.

Epiphanies are magical times when something just comes upon me in imagery, moving scenes or thought rolling across my mind like tickertape. Other enlightened moments could happen when something comes together after a long sequence of unravelling events. It's all a chaotic jumble. Then suddenly, viola! And such an occurrence is as exciting as a virtual drug, which is here one rare moment in time yet gone the next.

But what happens in-between?
There are other hours, days, months when nothing works at all. Too little comes together and everything else is just crap. What is produced appears as flat as an off-note sung badly. These times I simply have to stop, leave and do something else - anything that doesn't involve the creative process.

What DOES an artist do in such times?
There are people who make a living telling us what we should do, but I say to them that they are full of misguided truisms. How can one make rules out of creativity? It's not a point-by-point process of doing anything.

I've heard it said that one can discipline the self to sit at a desk and just type, sketch or rehearse till something good comes of it. I've never had anything that I like come from such false acts, only time wasted when I'd be happier just going for a walk. In such periods of burn-out I think it best to be kind to the muse and let the brain rest.

Oh, how there is great fear during such 'uncreative' moments. Yet, these fears are also lies. For me it's the fear of never producing anything of value, joy or what I can be proud of again. But that's all it is: FEAR. And fear is not based on reality.

Inspiration and creativity always return but on their own terms and in their own time. My best thoughts often occur when I'm falling off to sleep or just waking up. These are, of course, the moments of unhampered thought when the brain is rested and in a semi-conscious state. It does work for me to keep a notepad and pen beside the bed. But what works for me may not work for you, because in the process of creating we are all different. I recognise this now and did even when I was teaching writing. I could give helpful hints for the one struggling to write because they had to for an assignment. But when creating works of beauty and/or something I take pride in I would never find a formula and stick with it. I would simply let it happen and, in the meantime, be kind to myself while attempting to enjoy the rest of life.

We're not here that long, regardless.
www.aislingbooks.nl

Grand Performance until the Finale

2010-12-18T08:01:00.012+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 2010

What is life but a whisper
of greatness to be born,
a one-act meant to be played out
till the curtain falls
and we are no more than fleeting shadows
cast upon the barren walls?
Some may boast life to be a tandem affair.
I say to you that mine has always been a soliloquy.
Yet, do not quote me,
for I confess this only in an honest hour.

Take good care then not to upstage your fellows,
as there is always room for everyone to shine
within these dimensions of clarity.
Granted, some do shine more brightly
with their songs and dance and magic acts
performed until the sun
sets swiftly upon the horizon
and only roses are left to wilt upon the stage.

So – please – learn to bow gracefully,
for there is no encore.
Only the belief that cloaks the heart
with the off-chance
that it may have been mistaken after all.

What is life then
if nothing more than a brief whisper
that encounters other souls
and colours up our being more richly
than a rainbow’s glow across the cloudless sky?

www.aislingbooks.nl

ARTISTS' CORNER: Shers Gallagher - a teller of international yarns

2010-10-14T07:49:00.001+02:00

ARTISTS' CORNER: A moving, muse-ical perspective :)

2010-02-11T11:05:00.011+01:00

©Shers Gallagher 2010
A fellow blogger wrote something tongue in cheek about how life ‘doesn’t come with background music’. And I wrote back that my life does. I hear it all the time. This doesn't mean that I'm schizophrenic, hearing voices and such.

Rather, I'm saying that there are those of us who just continually have tunes running through our thoughts, whether made up or not, and these are not unpleasant. Far from it. My day is often fashioned from sensitivities of certain rhythmical moods and perspectives.
How about yours?
http://www.aislingbooks.nl/

ARTISTS' CORNER: Who is the Artist?

2009-12-09T14:33:00.004+01:00

ARTISTS' CORNER: Composites and Discoveries of Personal Theme
©Shers Gallagher 2009

Through the Artist's Looking Glass

I've recently been amassing stories, poems and songs that I’ve collected over the years. And I’ve done so with the full knowledge that such composites are typically not best sellers. However, the magic of doing so is in the discovery of a personal theme pulsating throughout – of common threads of ideas, literary symbolism and ponderings. Such awareness can be absolutely magical! But not only has this discovery been interesting, it has also proved slightly disturbing. How so? There are many areas in our being, I have found, that have grown irritated by an unwillingness to let go. Be it the memory of a loved one, personal triumph, defeat or even the inability to recognise and let go of the passing of youth, such memories are those we cling to until they fester within, such as what physically happens to one suffering from diverticulitis, which is a physical blockage in the colon.

During the process of accumulating what I call 'creative expression in written form', I've recognised so acutely all the places that I too have been lingering in and not letting go of. In a nonlinear world, you might say that this is where I dwell. And these are images played and replayed like slides and film reels of people, places and things that are no longer a part of my reality. Yet, they exist just the same as if they are genuinely there. I can see them, touch them, feel and even sometimes taste them. And they have taken up enormous 'virtual space'. Simply said, these are what the mind’s eye sees of lost youth and loved one’s passed on, even situations run and rerun that are no longer happening and haven’t occurred in a very long time. Honestly, there is nothing wrong with a healthy dose of rehashing the past now and again. It is the very bulk of personal history and storytelling after all. Yet, such feelings and emotions surrounding memory can be blinding, even blocking us from moving on and experiencing the fullness of our present life as we prepare for and anticipate what is around the corner.

In so many ways, I’ve found this act of gathering personal work into a cumulative body an enlightening experience. It has allowed me to see with clarity where I’ve been ‘dwelling’ – perhaps too long – and enabled me to hopefully let go of the virtual spaces that are truly no longer a part of my reality.

www.aislingbooks.nl

ARTISTS' CORNER: Does Commercialism dampen Creative Energy?

2009-12-05T20:35:00.004+01:00

[Photo: Kees plays accordian with Jan on guitar while Marianne listens appreciatively]

The Artist and Feelings of Selling Out
© Shers Gallagher 2009

To me it seems this particular topic can be a big struggle for every artist who likes to create for the sake of creating. Yet, when all is said and done, I've never met anyone who doesn't appreciate feedback. During the holiday season, especially, feelings are mixed while trying to sell one's product and/or receive kudos of recognition, whether one is a performing or fine artist, and not get caught up in the sense that worth is only by how it is measured and by whom. It's a dilemma for sure that requires a fine balance. I've even known musicians who've quit just when attention begins to reach an uncomfortable level, claiming it was interfering with their enjoyment of just gigging. Hmm, I can see their point, but....

www.aislingbooks.nl

ARTISTS' CORNER: What is Beauty?

2009-11-29T00:59:00.003+01:00

© SM Gallagher 2009
And what part does the human conception of beauty play in how we model and shape our world?

Author and aesthetics professor, Roger Scruton claims that “beauty demands to be noticed; it speaks to us directly like an intimate friend” (Beauty; April 2009). In his discourse on aesthetics, Scruton ponders if humanity hasn’t replaced ‘beauty’ with ‘functionality’ and is thereby suffering for it, having created ‘ugliness’ such as in the form of architecture for the sake of frugality in places that groups and individuals no longer want to inhabit. With this thought, he wonders if ‘beauty’ is vanishing from the world – beauty in art, science, music and personal mannerisms and courtesies. In a society that its seeking more than anything to indulge and satisfy the self, has it perhaps ignored or even disdained the more traditionally viewed philosophies dealing with taste and ‘beauty’ of timeless artistic value, such as the classics?

A ‘soul-less’ society is created by rootless wanderers, Scruton theorises, who’ve created ‘art’ for the sake of impression or shock; and, thus, he believes that they mistaken such values for beauty.

What do you think?

www.aislingbooks.nl

ARTISTS' CORNER: Music and the Soul

2009-11-26T11:09:00.005+01:00

Music and the soul
©2009 Shers Gallagher

Do you daily notice how music affects your being - inside and out? The harmonic, discordant sounds, the tonal combinations triggering memory recall, the tunes dancing in your head for no rhyme or reason? How about your inner urges to linger by the seaside? Or wander in the midst of mountains, breathing in and out unspoken peace and centring of being?

Music is everywhere: whether we stop and listen to nature or the household hum of soothingly familiar machines we've grown accustomed to in today's world. Youth draws itself hormonally to the reckless, cacophonous combinations that drive their elders' wild in other ways. :)

Music communicates its voice. Yet the combined resonance of more natural sound be it voice, keys, string, or skin are lost somewhat when synthesized on keyboard and computer.

Many don't realise just how much music affects them until we stop and listen and measure what we have to our days. Many of you, I'm sure, have read the various experiments and discoveries done with music - interesting, awakening, and sometimes alarming results. To live on a silent planet would be death to me!

N.B. I just stumbled onto a personal favourite, a haunting composition (midway in the musical score) adapted for the film version of Somerset Maugham’s ‘The Painted Veil’: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k1tyVlKjJZI

www.aislingbooks.nl

ARTISTS' CORNER: Creating Something Out of Nothing

2009-11-16T11:35:00.004+01:00

This week's topic:
Where do we get our inspiration?
© Shers Gallagher 2009

Many authors agree with me that the first few weeks of writing a new novel or any kind of created work is the most painful of experiences. Yet, it’s the most thrilling as well. And it’s one of the very few times when I feel a 'God complex', or the touch of the divine, feeling what it must be like to literally create something out of nothing.

How exactly do my characters, my setting and plot appear out of the void, as it seems? Amy Tan addresses the subject brilliantly in her talk: ' Where Does Creativity Hide?' And I believe, as she does, that there is never a complete answer to this question. It's a question that my writing students have often asked me as well. They would like a pat answer, a formulaic process to put them at ease like a road map on their journey, pointing out and directing each step they take along the way. And I could give them one, such as telling them to make a skeletal outline or keep a diary by their bed. But I would be cheating, as I don't do these things myself. I never have, as I’ve found them such ‘finite’ attempts to reach a more ‘infinite’ quality I seek with my work. For me, the inspiration has always come as a Eureka! – a flash of brilliance - that comes upon me irrespective of where I am, who I’m with or what I'm doing. And I do admit that having something to write on is handy when this happens.

My first novel, Boulder Blues, was written as to remember a past that had remained with a lot of black holes still to be filled in, as well as a prompting by others to tell the tale of those experiencing, trapped in and living through the Counterculture movement that hit the '60s-'70s youth culture like a tsunami. It wasn’t a biographical piece by any means. Yet, it captured the essence of the time I’d lived through as a young adult, my cultural surroundings and the people I mingled with as a performing folk musician and artist commune dweller. I did, however, want to preserve memories of a few very zany characters I’d known and loved, and who’ve since passed on. I wanted to resurrect their characters by giving them and their antics life in my fictitious tale. It also brought me so much joy mixed with occasional bittersweet memory to do so. I didn’t actually begin writing Boulder Blues until the death of an old boyfriend, a Vietnam veteran, whose name one day appeared out of the blue in the local newspaper. It was then that my characters and scenes seemed to come out of the walls and clutter my life, bringing flashes of memory with them. Sometimes I almost felt schizophrenic with running dialogues, as, in particular scenes, I found my characters running away with me. And quite often they just wouldn’t shut up! Magical experiences such as this continued to occur until this story was told.

So, was I creating my own life in this way? I don’t really have an answer to that. All I know is that, when this Eureka! happened, I was at a place in my soul where I was willing to let go and give my imagination free reign. I gave my characters voice and allowed them to speak to and through me. I even took on their beliefs for at time, as I truly relived the ‘60s culture while I was writing one of its many stories. In that way, I could almost call it historical though the tale itself was, again, purely fiction. Yet, during the process of creating something out of nothing, I discovered a buried youth that I had let out to play again. And that experience was a fantastic one! For a time, I had merged with my characters and become a part of the story itself.

In such away, I believe we authors tell our tales to bring meaning to our lives. And, thus, we create something out of nothing.

www.aislingbooks.nl

[This is part of a series of discussions 'on the creative muse' in my Facebook 'Fans of Murder On The Rocks!' group. Feel free to join in - no club membership required]

ARTISTS' CORNER: When an Artist Meets an Artist

2009-11-08T13:27:00.009+01:00

The Soul of an Artist
by Sherry Marie Gallagher 08 Nov 2009

Jacqui BB recently blogged about the inspiration behind her use of colours in her New Mexican landscape paintings. Her thoughtful reply got me to thinking about the creative process, be it that of the performing artist, writer, fine artist and/or photographer. To me, as a novelist, songwriter and poet, I feel my soul speaking, and sometimes living, through what I write. There have even been times in my life when others have suggested I was writing my own story, where I had one lady go so far as to tell me that I’d had an experience induced by past life memories.

Yet, I grew up in theatre during a time when method acting was the modern trend. We young thespians were then drilled by stage sergeants calling themselves directors to not just act out the lines but to BE the part. I’ll never forget the countless fuss, criticism and redirection till I got whatever measly little part I had believable in the eyes of whatever tyrannical stage sergeant had been in my charge. Looking back, I'm admittedly thankful, because this believable play has stuck with me though I've long since retired from the ‘smell of greasepaint and roar of the crowd’. And I’ve attempted to take this approach with me in whatever artistic enterprise I pursue. As a creative writer, for example, I most definitely live and breathe the air of each and every one of my characters. And some of these are not even human! Yet, I believe that whatever I have attempted to make my reader feel I have felt a thousand times more. It is to me a wonderful but exhaustive process to delve into with my heart and soul. I simply live what I create and, in this way, it’s been my hope that my reader will clearly hear and recognise my voice while living the experience along with me and my characters.

What I see in the forum of photographers I've now involved myself in as one of its administrators is an exceptional collection of individuals with keen eyes. I am moved by so many of their photos, sometimes thinking that I require not just three votes but all twenty something of them to ultimately say: ‘Well done, all!’ And I truly mean it!

As I commented to another artist, everyone with talent deserves their moment in the sun. I always wish, hope and pray for MORE - not less - of these moments to come, as I simply love throwing myself into these projects. Above all, I desire to keep myself visible as I create, move and impassion. Though I’m no longer on-stage, I shall always feel a strong urge to create, stir up and provoke others to think and feel the experience of what I attempt to orchestrate in whatever forum I am using to get others to feel right along with me. To me this is in the heart and soul of every artist, whatever their venue may be.

www.aislingbooks.nl