Listen to the thunder, cuntchops.

Bloody hell. Holy Toledo. Christ on a bike, pedalling furiously. Fuck.

All of us sorry bastards, blessed as we are to have, astoundingly, been born into life, are subject to personal realities that make us mentally recite the above line, or something like it, every little while. Like a rumbling soulful thunder, part dread, part not-knowing. This is only occasional in our mental lives. Dread-notknowing is of course the entirety of our spiritual. Anyway, my mental dread-notknowing for the last while is: very soon I will be meeting my Dad.

After mad violence my Mum ran away from him when I was three. Two or three years ago my oldest sister got in touch with him. He has a room ready for me in his house. It is in Cork, and apparently the cunt drinks as much as me. He does come from Cork after all. He lives quietly weaving baskets, baking bread and revealing cryptic messages in 'The Magic Flute'.

About a year ago I called him. We were both blind drunk, but understood each other perfectly. When he said 'Son', which he did repeatedly, I would choke up. It took a minute or two before I could say 'Dad'.

Can you imagine it? Can you hear the thunder? When I go 'home' we will drink the island dry. The dread-notknowing is the new world of hangovers I am about to enter. New, hostile, territory. We know by now the Spidery, the Head-Cracker and The One whose Name we Do Not Speak. But I am still young. I have so much to learn. I will be OK. Dad will guide me, or will fucking die trying no doubt. Pray for me, you bastards.

Sirrah!

"Admire the world...as you would an opponent, without taking your eyes off him, or walking away". Annie Dillard