Obituary: Robert John Kerrigan who has died on 17 June 2012

My father, Robert John Kerrigan, died early this morning following a long illness. He was predeceased by his beloved wife, Matilda (Tilly) on 23 March 2004. They are together again in their grave and I am separated from them definitively. A double absence.

Rest

The memories and love they leave behind

Are mine to keep

They have found their rest; they have turned their faces

To the sun, and now they sleep.

Some people forget their parents were once children, toddlers, teenagers, young adults. Something other than a parent. A unique individual with dreams, fears, their own view of the world, with long vanished emotions. Nights of dancing, laughter; believing they, alone, knew life's secrets.

Perhaps they faced periods of uncertainty and insecurity and, conversely, the gentle wind of success and fulfillment. Most of all, they had an individual and unique relationship with their own parents, siblings, grandparents, teachers, friends, and contemporaries.

They had their favourite hobbies, games and played pranks, of course. How can children ever know of their parents experience with life? The depth of the obstacles and trials they faced to comfort and protect them? To provide security, shelter and love? We can learn a lot from each other - both parent and child - but only if trust, honesty, understanding, reciprocation, and genuine love are present.

In a blink of an eye the baby becomes a child, goes to school, shouts and rebels, goes to work, goes out socially with friends, and on romantic dates, then announce they are leaving home.

*

Reflection: They grow no older. It is I who have changed, grown strange to what I was. (Wendell Berry from A Meeting.)

In memory of my father and mother

The Mystery of Van Gogh's Left Ear

The mystery surrounding Van Gogh's left ear shows no sign of abating. The Ear still refuses to talk about events in 1888. Primarily it was believed the Dutch painter cut off his ear with a razor after a row with Gauguin. Van Gogh walked, hopped, or ran to a nearby brothel, and presented the severed ear to a prostitute called Rozamond. She advised Vincent Willem that she only accepted cash or payment by PayPal for her services, and told him to stick his ear. Where? According to certain observers' Rozamond imparted, "... [where] suns and universes ceased to be."

Some believe Van Gogh's left ear ran off to Milan to become a successful opera singer and that the present ear is an impostor. The French police have announced that investigations are ongoing concerning the whereabouts of Paul Cézanne's hair, Claude Monet's beard, and Edgar Degas' nose which hasn't been seen in Paris since 1917.

Harsh times, indeed, for connoisseurs of the art world, and suppliers of Earwax Removal kits.

*

All evidence concludes that the brain and the body are intimately involved with each other. Today as I was eating my ninth large watermelon (it is believed the fruit has a 'viagra-like effect') I witnessed two neighbours, Hans Faraway and Constance Compass, in what can only be described as an electromagnetic clinch.

His brain and her body danced in a trance-like state. Faraway's brain was wearing the large head of a donkey with long ears. Constance's body - which was facing north - attempted a bungee jump without the requisite elastic cord. She was last seen waving hysterically from a hot-air-balloon using unfamiliar sign language.

*

I'm considering names for the characters of my next novel. Working title: Life Isn't Fair It's A Brunette. A character's name should proclaim their nature. I'm toying with Shirley Koalabear as the husband and Friedrich Sniffer as his wife who suddenly announces (while chewing on a perfectly cooked roast male leg) that she is a cannibal.

Friedrich Sniffer is recruited by the army with a mission to reduce troop numbers. Her weapon: a bottle of HP Sauce. Objective: to reduce the army's basic pay, benefits, redundancy and severance pay budgets'. I've written the end of the novel first to gauge how long the story will be. I estimate about 60 metres if the weather holds out.

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Reflections: I purchased my current house because of its name, Deep Roots. This morning I rose late and the building is nowhere to be seen. It even had the audacity to take my black laced boots, thin summer jacket and collection of church bells. 

A Night At The Opera

I remember one evening attending the theatre with an old friend, Anders Pedometer - a small, round-faced, short-sighted man. When the curtain went up a strange sound welled from the orchestra pit.

Anders had fallen from the balcony and was sitting on the shoulders of an oboe player. I was left holding his well-groomed black moustache, white eyebrows and left hand. The audience applauded under the false impression that Anders' acrobatics and severed hand were part of the show. He never again set foot in a theatre. I was told he once threw a bus timetable at a theatre door in Paris due to a train arriving late at Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

Following that episode poor Anders hurtled headlong into a mire of alcoholism, drug abuse and chain-smoking feather mattresses. I'm under no illusions; Anders is somewhere, dying slowly. I wish I could say his future is uncertain, but friendship demands openness, a passion for honesty.

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I've kept diaries my entire adult life. Not my own, of course. I confess they have provided me with welcome distraction and untold pleasure when I desired calm day or night. The excitement of reading and pondering another individuals account of love, desire, embarrassment, meetings planned that did not happen, and synopsis of dealing with demons, rootlessness, anxiety, were engaging and enlightening. The diaries reminded me of my failings and weaknesses, and why I constantly felt bewildered and lost.

The life the diaries portrayed was not exhausted by sleepless nights or indecision. Each page described the fulfilment of dreams, successful conclusions and the need to make sense of one's existence. The remarks were neither blurred nor ambiguous.

This morning my home is less warm, my vision blurred, my movements motionless. I was foolish, or absentminded, not to recognise the chronicler of such dubious passages was myself. Suddenly my dreams were drowned by waves of devastating, tangible reality. I retired to the sitting room to play Ravel's Concerto for the Left Hand with my right foot. Somehow it seemed appropriate.

*

 This year, I have read and reread Guy de Maupassant's short story The Necklace. I remain dazzled by its brevity, ironic plot, and thought-provoking brilliance. Many films, novels, stories, plays, operas, are overly long for no other reason than poor editing.

A case in point. During a recent operatic performance of Hamlet the lovely Ophelia took so long to die I wept with dismay. Her expressions and gestures (never mind her singing, wailing, giving and throwing flowers) made me mumble in Chinese, eat a stranger's handkerchief, and tear my shirt, trousers and stockings to shreds. In a moment of madness I approached the stage. With Ophelia in a trance I filled her ears with pansies, each nostril with violets, and placed a garland of fennel in her mouth for good measure. Anything to help her on her way, so to speak.

The scene ended abruptly. Surprisingly the audience roared my praise. I bowed, embracing a sustained ovation. Was the opera finished? The rest of the performance cancelled? No. Just shortened. It ended just before midnight just as I collapsed with a migraine.

*         

Reflections: One should choose wisely which books to read as one's lifespan is limited. Since I was twelve or thirteen years of age I've borrowed books from libraries. I'm glad I didn't have to purchase most of them. On reading a few of the novels it was a triumph to get past the first chapter. Does anyone count the money they spend on wearily written novels that swim to the public on a slick sea of marketing, advertising, and chain-book store and supermarket placement?

The choice of downloading thousands of ebooks to an electronic reader is a choice for many readers. While outlets still exist I enjoy browsing, exploring, reading and purchasing books at local bookstore chains. Also, on the internet when the price dictates. In the present economic climate my first port of call is the library, unless I discover an unforgettable book that does not have to plea to join my personal collection.

Darkness in the Afternoon - Part One

I was sitting in my office cleaning my handgun when it accidentally fired narrowly missing a flea on the head of Mr Alfred Rukelhaus who was having his hair cut in “The Hair’s Progress” across the street—a business run by a man with large black eyes that squinted intensely called Stravinsky. I immediately leapt from my chair, closed the venetian blinds and crawled on my knees back to my desk. I was on the floor when someone entered my office.

"That sounded like a shot?"

"It was my new coffee percolator. Buying a 'twenty cup' was a blunder. It flew out the window. Probably in Shoreditch Park by now."

"Are you a private eye?"

I slipped back into my chair and shuffled the one piece of paper on my desk. When I glanced at the source of the voice, I saw a beautiful woman with fine black hair and piercing dark eyes. Normally I stand to greet clients, but decided—for her modesty, and mine—to remain seated. I gestured to the lady to take a seat.

"My name is Elina."

"Sounds Greek?"

"I’m from Tooting."

She looked at me with a mixture of intensity and pride.

"Are you an investigator, or not?!"—Elina glanced at her watch—"I’ve no time to waste!"

After checking I was breathing my two eyes met her two eyes. "You have a face that cries – NO, SHOUTS (I leapt from my chair) MELANCHOLY!" Then softly, "And just a little anxious, no?"

Peculiar sounds emanated from my body. I made a mental note to modify my diet. "I’m—an explorer—a prober—a sleuth." I started to ramble.

"What was your most recent case and the outcome?"

"A kidnapped halibut. It belonged to a dentist who performed a shoddy deep-root filling. The kidnapper sent a ransom note to its owner with a photograph of the fish holding the Hackney Post. The fish was returned unharmed. I’m sorry to say the dentist was later found dead—battered to death with a haddock."

"How did you recover this fish—this hellibute?"

"Halibut! Basic, professional detective work. I’m sworn to secrecy about the details—" I made a note to obtain analgesics; my gums were still markedly sensitive.

"What’s the book?" she asked, pointing to my desk.

"Gustave Flaubert by Madame Bovary. I’m not usually a fan of female writers, however this is exceptional."

Elina had lost her husband and was fearful he was in danger. I stayed quiet hoping she would volunteer information.

Finally, I asked, "Did you murder your husband?"

She half-closed her beautiful eyes with a weary grace.

"I said—"

"—I know what you said. Why would I?"

"Money, pleasure, the excitement of amorous adventures—?"

"NO! You're insane." A perceptive and intelligent lady.

My instinct told me she was telling the truth. "OK. I believe you. Tell me about your husband. How you met him—" As I listened I looked at her face. I could sense uncertainty beneath her enticing self-confidence.

End of Part One (to be continued during bright daylight)

Happy New Year in 2012 & New Year Resolutions

The Birth of the World - Joan Miró (1893-1983)

With gratitude I wish to thank the people who visit this site. I wish you happiness and peace in 2012. Also, success with your dreams, your inspirations, your creations, and may your life resound with good health, hope, solidarity, trust and love.

My new year resolutions are to eat and sleep regularly, to look at all things again without any preconceived ideas, to stop feeling like an empty square in search of a future, to travel by Chinese lantern with my pet kangaroo high above a chestnut grove, to get more variety into my dream life, and to sleep in a barn with an ethereal, amorphous, waif-like, beautiful young lady who wishes to explore the conflict between love and independence with eloquence, vitality and magical insight.

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Reflections: Only the rich and privileged are able to maintain their grand illusions of life for long. Others must live on solid ground, in the real world, celebrate its joys, mourn its misfortunes, and pass from the darkness into the light before it is too late and all is lost.

Great Interviews of the 20th Century - Ronnie Kerrigan discusses his novel: Sink

This is an edited version of Ronnie Kerrigan's interview with Tanya Shepherd, first published in Dogs Monthly, November 22, 1996

Tanya Shepherd:  What influenced you to pursue writing as a career?

Ronnie Kerrigan:  Basically, I'm an exhibitionist with nothing worthwhile to exhibit. I'm totally devoid of literary, or poetic talent. Anyone who ever read my printed work would be painfully aware of this fact.

What's the best advice you have ever been given?

Don't move or I'll shoot.

Your parents were schoolteachers. Did this have any particular influence?

I remember our home was covered in books. Roof tiles would have been more effective. I believe they would have prevented the rain encroaching and soaking our clothes, beds and watering down our food. Of course, it was a household full of readers. One day I counted twenty five, and I didn't know a single person.

Were your family energetic and battling people?

My mother was highly energetic both physically and mentally. She was a marvellous pianist. I remember sitting in the living room listening to her playing Chopin. My father would simultaneously perform a clog dance dressed as Charlie Chaplin in the same room. I believe out of spite, perhaps jealousy. He felt eclipsed by my mother's creativity, and her ability to eat home-made ginger biscuits without a sudden need to use the bathroom.

What was your relationship with your father? I believe he had numerous affairs.

How much was reality or fantasy is anyone's guess? He carried a candle for years for a woman younger than my mother. Undeniably this played havoc when he was washing, eating, or driving. I don't believe the candle was returned to the young woman.

Your father started writing seriously while in jail. Did that influence you to write?

Perhaps. My father had a terrible fear of silence. Anything motionless such as a full moon, a mist, a pool of water, a quiet asthmatic, could light his short fuse. He was jailed for impersonating a menu at The Grill at the Dorchester in London and shouting at diners, 'Chips with everything.' He wrote a novel while incarcerated titled Love: The Beginning of Suffering. It was never published.

Why?

It was considered too credible, absurd, yet devastatingly truthful. He felt that woman were superior to men in all aspects of life. Anyway, one has to sell, promote and market oneself. My father didn't have the energy to perform with the goal of influencing a particular set of observers at a given time. He once said to me, 'Only the reader can judge whether a book is superficial, or, alternatively, possesses an abiding intensity that provokes thought, empathy, joy, doubt, and gets to the heart and soul of things.'

Your novel, Sink, is the first of three short stories that will form a trilogy of novels? Is that correct? If so, can you elaborate?

I'm still trying to find my writer's voice. One must be an acute observer of human behaviour, attitudes and be able to read character. A voyeur, of sorts. The language, the words, the characters, must impact on me. I don't expect anyone of a reasonable intellect to read it. Otherwise I would be outed as a fraud. The trilogy will include, Sink, Bath and A Single Room. I suppose the first short story, Sink, could be interpreted as an attempt to cast light on something detached, yet ever present, that has borne witness to the life and values of an individual. The effects of their childhood and formative experiences, their ambitions, achievements, loves and disasters.

The heart of the story is that no human being is free of flaw or disappointment. The antiquated sink, and the single room in which it stands, face the cycle of renewal. The cycle of renewal that those with abiding intensity and strength use to create a less complicated and better life for themselves and those around them.

If you could change one thing in your life what would it be?

Years ago, one night, while the world was sound asleep, I found myself fizzled through the consumption of too many cocktails. For some reason, unrevealed to myself, I felt a sudden urge to board the night bus to Putney High Street in London.

Would you care to amplify on your comment? 

Well, the bus was 'out of service.' I spent five days on the inert machine before a passing dog jumped on board to inform me. The dog was a Neapolitan Mastiffa which, I recollect, bore an uncanny resemblance to Cherie Blair.

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Reflections:  It is noteworthy to remember that words can be dangerous in the mouths of the supercilious, the detached, the impassive, the fabricator, and especially if they fall on your head.