October, 1999

Oct. 2^nd –Work was still rating as horrid. Saw clip of Bono and Wyclef Jean and knew he was still inserting his lyrics about “her” again. “You’ve seen things you never should have seen”. –Well that’s one way of putting it. Ah, “Spanish Rose”. He’d used that before (the rose “only” four times: “Deep in the Heart”, “Where Did It All Go Wrong”, “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” and “I’m Not Your Baby”). Conflating them was creating a binding his work so that it could be inferred what he was addressing now in song was all these songs combined; he was in a sense defining his object, and telling “her” what he wanted her to do now. She knew reasons for all of them, had connections with each, so even the mere selection of a couplet combined and sunk in with the power of five (six actually). Two were absolutely pivotal in all that had transpired, with the other two rounding other elements (“stony rose” on “Where Did It All Go Wrong” connoting break up), and the first recognition he’d had that he was linking into something finite and perhaps human (“so you’re not white, your pink and rosy” on “I’m Not Your Baby” (also connoting break-up), which was a very deliberate devolution from “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses”, with the oh so key allusion to the river, the very first moment her thoughts on the matter merged, there lay the allusion to “Heaven’s white rose”) –and was a third song connoting break up). This roster by all things apparent did not have Ali as its existing object, but existed in artistic reference in terms of Bono’s reference on “New Day” to “Spanish rose”. By the age it was a deliberate reference to his daughter Jordan, but she didn’t know that. She absorbed it in terms of the body of reference the words had in the past.

Midnight, she's on the street
She can't sleep, she's afraid to dream
Ten years old, my Spanish rose
You see things you never should have seen
Midnight, she's on the street
She can't sleep, she's afraid to dream
Ten years old, my Spanish rose
You see things you never should have seen

In terms of past references to previous rose references the song happened to pull up, all existed purely in the sphere of imagined inspiration, not based on tangibles in his life, (except for one of them, which being released in tandem with “Spanish Eyes”, should naturally be inferred to be about Ali). The laugh for her was that in Eire, people mostly tended to guess she was Spanish, only sometimes secondarily Irish, being Black Irish. “Baby’s scared to dream”, when threats in the present had made even articulating any of her thoughts as possible absolutely terrifying, to the point that she placed stricture on her mind itself.

Even in a moment of treacle, Bono could still manage to make her cry. “Pulling the moon up on a rope” – ha-ha. (Obviously it wasn’t the radio version that she heard; there is only one verse in this lyric posting in this song; she wrote down the line because in what she’d witnessed, Bono had sung two verses.) In effect by binding these terms to a context in the present (which had to do with revealing the moon”, a very laden context with what she’d already hoisted the moon as to him exclusively, perhaps invoking her to declare it at large), Bono was again providing an artistic contextual reference that meant something entirely different thanks to the Now, and that Now happened to be fulfilled by what she’d already presented to him personally in terms of revealing to him about his apparent devolution of the moon as a symbol, from the Divine to earthly, that had begun to follow. It was a tiny linkage in the present that latched into the transcendent artistic context she saw (in terms of his term usage in the past), one she could explain in terms of herself in a linear progression over time as ultimately fulfilling the context of every one of these songs. Maybe; it was far too great a stretch to be worth positing. But it did all happen to fit; she would end up explaining every one of these songs to him. It was amusing too, listening to how he’d secured his position in the video, behind the scenes consummate showman. “I’m not available” three times.

She was far too scared to dream at the moment in the sense of being too afraid to continue the connection to him inside her mind. By approaching him tangibly she was quite deliberately shutting down the interior aspect of their potentially existing connectivity, refusing to accept it unless he himself recognized it and was prepared to vouch for it. She would not pour her emotions out to him emptily or needlessly, not unless she was certain the connection did exist. She would not fall into the pit of something imaginary. She was also terrified to go any further unless she was able to confirm mutuality of the Divine Injunction first, in order to protect from the damnation her father had declared unleashed just by attempting to go and find out at all. Without establishing that basis for it, he would not have her mind at all regardless.

The evening before she’d also encountered the video for “Starfuckers Incorporated” (USIT had their televisions set on MTV), something of a “holy shit” moment, because it hit her on another level entirely; it wasn’t just dealing in the utter corruption of the star music system and its dispensation; she’d known that from the start. There was also an underlying element of the real “star”, the spiritual inspirational object, hijacked by every artist, including Bono and Wyclef Jean in a moment of weakness like “New Day” (the weakest of allusions caught only in Bono’s verses); the potential that had always been present (“every artist is a cannibal, every poet is a thief, all kill their inspiration, and speak about their grief”). It was now at the cusp of becoming a fatal argument thanks to Bono’s choices since August, for to deny her existence in the tangible world potentially shunted his personal, interior, one-step-removed access of her into the realm of pure exploitation. Trent was the sort to pull that thread out even from a full carpet, and express it in the fullest sense, and he was doing it right at the moment it was developing an element of truth.
Going back to his trailer park roots, eh? “Now I belong, I’m one of the chosen ones.” –Just when he’d shifted, heh-heh-heh; before she’d never been sure. It was so black, his rendering, she suspected it to have only been an arch-type. She didn’t feel the possibility or confirmation of a potential connection with him until now. The underlying hit was resplendent in his targets, couched with a particular depth given his opening espousal of God. Was it merely the declaration of the espousal of hypocrisy, the vicarious and self-idolatry of the star system? But who were his targets? Oh, there was Michael Stipe. There was…his especial bile was reserved for himself and Billy Corgan, the “Zero” himself, the one out of them all she’d chosen in her mind. For them he smashed full head mock-ups, not just images on plates. It was interesting, the other head he’d chosen apart from his own. She had to wonder what Trent had a sense of from Corgan in actually knowing him somewhat (whether it was grounded), wondered at the two artists he’d happened to choose to smash that happened to be in her lexicon. Was it a prescience that Billy wasn’t all that he seemed? Was an accusation they’d fall into the realm of exploiters actually on target? Of course Trent had ample ability to chill her even now, though she would not heed what she contemplated more as spite. Considering the full realm of what the song/video attacked, most of it was well placed, including at himself, displacing/accepting culpability in a sense that was almost admirable. Besides, there was a level of cosmic jokery about it all that deserved to be punctured and all if not many were quite capable of it; they just didn’t impale it with a skewer.

Oct. 4^th – “It’s so horrible to think of a future with no response.” Then she got hit with George Michael and Mary K. Blige, “As” (03/09/99). “Don’t you know that true love asks for nothing, her acceptance is the way with pain”, which produced this commentary. 

“You see this is what I’m coming through a second time, and this is how I’m going to conclude the writing; it’s what I’ve been dealing with since I started writing. It’s why Bono became my last gauntlet. You see, true love will give itself to the collective, the abstraction, even if there is nothing for her and it’s the most painful thing she’s ever had to do. But if she does it, then she’ll have everything inside. True love will accept those consequences. I already did that once. Now I’m being faced with it again, and not just in theory. I’ve already accepted. I understand this, and then I hear the song.”

Even “Fastlove” was a laugh, with its closure of “I believe we’re practicing the same religion”.  And after encountering Edge that night and walking into the Kitchen, it was freaky leaving to see two men in suits across the street, one of whom she could have sworn was George Michael in a gold lamé suit; he was staring at her. She would have never approached on that basis. Besides she was much too leery of mimics by now. The afternoon also had Blur’s offering, “The Universal”, which may explain why she coined it. “This is the next century, where the universal’s free, yes the seeds to the next century have been sown, you know it really really really could happen”, “Yes the universal’s here, here for everyone” …“well here’s our lucky day, it really really really could happen, yes it really really really could happen, well if the days just seem to fall through, you might as well just let them go”. (From the band that had also produced “Beetlebum”, eh?)

After work she went to USIT to try and preserve her notes. A huge bulk of a guy showed up, yet he emanated meekness, sounded so harmless; he wanted to print something from the hard drive; she let him go ahead. While he was looking for it, his bulging forearm was staring at her, a huge tattoo of a pentagram complete with the scowling goat’s head surrounded in flames. She blanched not at all, rather replied in her mind, “I’ve stolen your star. I’ve inverted it.” The guy with the pentagram inadvertently shut down her document without saving it; fortunately all that was lost was the notes she’d already transcribed to paper. At the end of the night the disk was too full and crashed the document a second time, losing the day.

That night she was listening to Bowie’s “Outside”, and it dawned on her that it really was happening outside, meaning outside of human perception. Functioning and acting on other people’s consciousness by acting in terms of potentialities, assuming what couldn’t be perceived. It’s beyond their perception too. When this dawned on her she said, “Right”, and within two seconds Bowie said “Right” on the track itself. Right. She had a very powerful dream involving him not long afterward.

“Nick tricked me into realizing my own wishes; I want to get married on the inside. It has to be real somewhere.”

On the 7^th she was off to Sligo to see/meet Mr. @MickPuck himself. The timing was tight, arrival at The White House Hostel. No seriously. Boarding in a room with a woman named Elaine, who looked in her 30’s, and got to the bottom of things with her very quickly. Her eyes had that way of drifting into yours. She was a Dubliner. Ray asked, “When did you get here?”

“Last Friday. I still don’t know why I’m here though,” she said significantly. Oh. It’s one of those. Ray grinned largely, one of several. She told her about the letters, all. Why she wanted to talk to Bono about her beliefs. And the first question she got was as to Christ’s gender.

“Well let me put it this way. Christ was a man, but Christ is a woman.” Quite a slip up for Ray, the sort of precautionary she’d have never risked back home. Elaine loved it. For Elaine it was, “I’ve never met anyone who articulated the same beliefs”. For Ray it was a breath of fresh air. Elaine was disappointed she was missing Mike Scott; Ray told her to go and try anyway. Elaine’s reply was it doesn’t matter, I met you instead, and that’s more interesting. Elaine provided her with homemade lentil/leek/potato soup.

At the gig the introducing act couldn’t see her properly, but kept staring her down anyway. She was stewing on the fact that she had a letter to deliver to Mike Scott, “Good Lord, it might as well have come from Venus”, but nonetheless, deliver it she did. First Intermission. Now. Once most people come back to their seats, so you cannot be observed. She’d already found the backstage entrance looking for a cloakroom. She walked to the washroom and waited, knowing the timing had to be perfect. But timing is on her side. When she walked out, only five people were left in the lobby. Straight backstage. In avoiding voices, she blundered her way right to the stage entrance. They’ll be coming through here. So she stood in the dark behind some huge sideboards. Again in the forest green hoodie and the long blue, white, black and green skirts. Sure enough, in two minutes Mike and Steve walk through. “Good Luck Mike” says someone. She walks straight up, taps his shoulder ever so lightly. He’s a lot smaller than she is.

“Hi Mike. This is a letter for you. I’m just going to put it here, OK?”

“A Letter. –For me?”

“Yes. For you.”

“Take that for me, will you?”

Then he’s onstage. It was like Cave, only more so. But she’d done it. Right on time. Afterwards she walked around the church in the wind. Elaine saw Mike Scott after all. A friend was there with an extra ticket. In the morning she caught the bus back in time for work, but not before saying good-bye to the swans and their goslings. 

On October 22^nd among what were becoming consistent feedback repeats she caught Garbage’s “The World is Not Enough”, thinking a Bond soundtrack was the only way to dare such a lovely brazen audacity of feminine self-confidence, power and wisdom, (with the requisite Bond lethality), not to mention,

The world is not enough
But it is such a perfect place to start, my love
And if you're strong enough
Together we can take the world apart, my love

This from a band she’d wondered about in the past, it felt like blowing a hole through the wall on first hearing. And that was when she had the dream Bowie transmogrified into, and with his advent reality became a whole new ball game that could be morphed at will. Walk on water (The Liffey), graduated to walking on air, fly, brave new world. The next dream was Bono singing a song with the power to fuel a consuming fire; victory over a giant ogre at the end of a black hole. It opened with “I have someone that hasn’t been torn apart.”

On Sunday she encountered a very aristocratic looking woman at the Spar (she lived in an apartment in Temple Bar), apparently wealthy, stylish in a green coat and gloves, who for reasons unexplained took a shine to Ray immediately and began telling her about her love. Feisty at 5”4, with very striking green/blue eyes, height hadn’t stopped her from getting her man, who’d been a foot taller than she was. She was perhaps elderly but carried it middle aged and opened the conversation by saying she’d been the “partner” of the former Taoiseach, pointing to an article concerning him in the paper. “They all have partners,” she said significantly. Ray was there to buy the transcript of Bono’s intro for a pocket book of Psalms, and felt struck by the feeling that when Nick had attempted something similar for the book of Mark, well she almost felt certain he’d have done a much better job. For a brief moment she felt miles ahead of Bono, even more isolating. He did mention freedom based in the love state, though.

At USIT that week she went to check her e-mail but found the line too long to wait. When she set foot on the stairs she saw a man who’d come close to losing half his face; the right side was completely distorted, his mouth pulled down, his entire face sunken into a pit where his jaw must have been shattered. It was obvious he’d received skin grafts. She never saw people so marred in Canada, and certainly not with such frequency, the product of violence, and the sympathy and pity she felt though she daren’t express it was overwhelming. She passed him without pause. On the way down however he was aligned the opposite way, and deliberately swivelled his head as she passed so that she could only see his natural profile, what he was really like, what he’d been before.

Oh God. He’s showing me, specifically, this is what I look like, this is who I am. He knows I know. She had to keep her face from crumbling; outside she had to keep from crying. It reminded her of one of her early encounters on the street in front of Lord Edward #9 once she lived there. A man on the street would bow his head whenever he saw her to avoid looking at her face. The first encounter happened when she was leaving for work; she was sitting outside waiting for Asha and this desolate person shuffled past, sort of canted towards her and thought better of it, but as soon as he passed her line of sight he froze and stood bowed with his back to her for more than twenty minutes. She thought it pretty strange but was deliberately dismissing that his freezing had to do with her, though many people passing found it odd too. When she left she silently walked up behind him and peered at his face. Surprised to find the side towards her embedded with gravel, she could do nothing but reach up in an attempt to brush it off. But as he began to cringe when she did, she murmured “Sorry” and left.