Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Grammar Got Run Over By A Reindeer
As most of you know, I am fascinated by the English language. More than fascinated, you might say that it is one of my earliest and most enduring loves. As with almost all long-times loves, this relationship has developed its own fetishes and perversions. In my case, the most perverse is...I LOVE ENGLISH GRAMMAR. There. I said it. Publicly on Facebook where it is visible to over a billion people. And along with the base perversion, there exists a sort of corollary: I am a Grammar Nazi. As you can see, as GN, I have a Seal of Approval and a Seal of Disapproval.
I have found one song and one song only that addresses this fetish. Its..oops! I mean it's a Parody of "Gramma Got Run Over By A Reindeer," a trite and silly song that begs to be parodied. It's called "Grammar Got Run Over By A Reindeer."
Here are the lyrics.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe
She'd been drinking too much eggnog.
Had she drank or had she drunk?
With all her sentence fragmentation,
We'd all told her that her sentence structure stunk.
She was so very, very angry!
She figuratively stormed right out the door.
There were quotation marks around her
We kept wondering what those silly marks were for.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe
Hopefully we'll all find grammar
On whom our writing does rely
We may start struggling with pronouns.
Is it you and me or is it you and I?
It's not Christmas without Grammar
We just don't do nothing correct.
And we just can't help but wonder
Are we feeling the affect or the effect?
THE EFFECT!
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe
Now the podcasts's on our iPods.
And our ear buds in our ears.
We'll be listening in weekly
So we can point out grammatical errors to our peers.
We've warned all our friends and neighbors
Better listen for yourselves
Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing
Is better than any books on your bookshelves.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe.
I cannot find it on Youtube, but an mp3audio is at http://grooveshark.com/#!/album/Grammar+Girl+s+Quick+And+Dirty+Tips+For+Better+Writing/182994
Note: Kulwinder Singh, this is worse than most of my songs. Don't listen, and, if you ignore my advice and listen anyway, don't complain. You were warned.
Now, a further confession. I love the fact that the English language is alive, constantly growing, changing, evolving, spinning off in unexpected ways. I am most grateful that we don't have the equivalent of the fascist Academie Française, telling us what we may or may not say. There is no point in trying to preserve the purity of the English language; indeed, English has no purity to preserve. It is a mutt, a mongrel, a Germanic language overrun with vocabulary and grammar from the whole of the Indo-European linguistic family and some from other families, as well.
I am known to occasionally use non-standard grammar, most especially when I verb nouns, a favourite manifestation of my perversion, what you might term a fetish. Grammar Nazi allows herself this privilege because she knows what she's doing. When your English is as good as hers, you have her permission to do the same.
(WTF, there is something seriously wrong with you if you need my permission. Freedom is an even higher value than good grammar.)
Here are the lyrics.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe
She'd been drinking too much eggnog.
Had she drank or had she drunk?
With all her sentence fragmentation,
We'd all told her that her sentence structure stunk.
She was so very, very angry!
She figuratively stormed right out the door.
There were quotation marks around her
We kept wondering what those silly marks were for.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe
Hopefully we'll all find grammar
On whom our writing does rely
We may start struggling with pronouns.
Is it you and me or is it you and I?
It's not Christmas without Grammar
We just don't do nothing correct.
And we just can't help but wonder
Are we feeling the affect or the effect?
THE EFFECT!
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe
Now the podcasts's on our iPods.
And our ear buds in our ears.
We'll be listening in weekly
So we can point out grammatical errors to our peers.
We've warned all our friends and neighbors
Better listen for yourselves
Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing
Is better than any books on your bookshelves.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe.
Grammar got run over by a reindeer
Walking home from our house Christmas Eve
You can say there's no point to good grammar
But as for me and Mignon we believe.
I cannot find it on Youtube, but an mp3audio is at http://grooveshark.com/#!/album/Grammar+Girl+s+Quick+And+Dirty+Tips+For+Better+Writing/182994
Note: Kulwinder Singh, this is worse than most of my songs. Don't listen, and, if you ignore my advice and listen anyway, don't complain. You were warned.
Now, a further confession. I love the fact that the English language is alive, constantly growing, changing, evolving, spinning off in unexpected ways. I am most grateful that we don't have the equivalent of the fascist Academie Française, telling us what we may or may not say. There is no point in trying to preserve the purity of the English language; indeed, English has no purity to preserve. It is a mutt, a mongrel, a Germanic language overrun with vocabulary and grammar from the whole of the Indo-European linguistic family and some from other families, as well.
I am known to occasionally use non-standard grammar, most especially when I verb nouns, a favourite manifestation of my perversion, what you might term a fetish. Grammar Nazi allows herself this privilege because she knows what she's doing. When your English is as good as hers, you have her permission to do the same.
(WTF, there is something seriously wrong with you if you need my permission. Freedom is an even higher value than good grammar.)
Friday, October 25, 2013
Saturday, October 12, 2013
FOR THE WORLD IS HOLLOW AND I HAVE TOUCHED THE SKY - A Shabad
sRIrwgu mhlw 5 ]
nwmu iDAwey so suKI iqsu muKu aUjlu hoie ]
pUry gur qy pweIAY prgtu sBnI loie ]
swDsMgiq kY Gir vsY eyko scw soie ]1]
myry mn hir hir nwmu iDAwie ]
nwmu shweI sdw sMig AwgY ley Cfwie ]1] rhwau ]
dunIAw kIAw vifAweIAw kvnY Awvih kwim ]
mwieAw kw rMgu sBu iPkw jwqo ibnis indwin ]
jw kY ihrdY hir vsY so pUrw prDwnu ]2]
swDU kI hohu ryxukw Apxw Awpu iqAwig ]
aupwv isAwxp sgl Cif gur kI crxI lwgu ]
iqsih prwpiq rqnu hoie ijsu msqik hovY Bwgu ]3]
iqsY prwpiq BweIho ijsu dyvY pRBu Awip ]
siqgur kI syvw so kry ijsu ibnsY haumY qwpu ]
nwnk kau guru ByitAw ibnsy sgl sMqwp ]4]8]78]
sreeraag mehalaa 5 ||
naam dhhiaaeae so sukhee this mukh oojal hoe ||
poorae gur thae paaeeai paragatt sabhanee loe ||
saadhhasa(n)gath kai ghar vasai eaeko sachaa soe ||1||
maerae man har har naam dhhiaae ||
naam sehaaee sadhaa sa(n)g aagai leae shhaddaae ||1|| rehaao ||
dhuneeaa keeaa vaddiaaeeaa kavanai aavehi kaam ||
maaeiaa kaa ra(n)g sabh fikaa jaatho binas nidhaan ||
jaa kai hiradhai har vasai so pooraa paradhhaan ||2||
saadhhoo kee hohu raenukaa apanaa aap thiaag ||
oupaav siaanap sagal shhadd gur kee charanee laag ||
thisehi paraapath rathan hoe jis masathak hovai bhaag ||3||
thisai paraapath bhaaeeho jis dhaevai prabh aap ||
sathigur kee saevaa so karae jis binasai houmai thaap ||
naanak ko gur bhaettiaa binasae sagal sa(n)thaap ||4||8||78||
Siree Raag, Fifth Mehla:
One who meditates on the Naam is at peace; his face is radiant and bright.
Obtaining it from the Perfect Guru, he is honored all over the world.
In the Company of the Holy, the One True Lord comes to abide within the home of the self. ||1||
O my mind, meditate on the Name of the Lord, Har, Har.
The Naam is your Companion; it shall always be with you. It shall save you in the world hereafter. ||1||Pause||
What good is worldly greatness?
All the pleasures of Maya are tasteless and insipid. In the end, they shall all fade away.
Perfectly fulfilled and supremely acclaimed is the one, in whose heart the Lord abides. ||2||
Become the dust of the Saints; renounce your selfishness and conceit.
Give up all your schemes and your clever mental tricks, and fall at the Feet of the Guru.
He alone receives the Jewel, upon whose forehead such wondrous destiny is written. ||3||
O Siblings of Destiny, it is received only when God Himself bestows it.
People serve the True Guru only when the fever of egotism has been eradicated.
Nanak has met the Guru; all his sufferings have come to an end. ||4||8||78||
Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji p.44
Yes, I am a Trekkie, a nerd of the classical variety. Although not as knowledgeable as some – I'd have to look up France Nuyen's middle name – I am nonetheless a huge fan. More importantly, Star Trek has integrated itself into my life.
In the episode whose name shares this piece's title, a group of people are, unknown to them, living inside a spaceship hurling toward a paradisaical promised land. One man, now very old, once climbed a mountain, an act strictly forbidden, reached up and felt the edge of the spaceship. Telling about this, he falls dead, his act of disobedience costing him his life.
This might all be allegorical (much of Star Trek is), but I'm not sure if this has anything to do with this shabad or why I am writing this Whatever the case the background may be interesting to some. It is to me.
I have made this picture to illustrate one of the meanings of this shabad to me. There are many other meanings, of course. This is just one. I am no scholar and I am certain others get deeper meanings from this; this is what I see now. I am not writing a line-by-line analysis; I leave that to others.
Every time I read this shabad that line comes to my mind; for me it sums up one of the meanings it sometimes has for me. After all is said and done, the world of Maya is shallow and meaningless, hollow. How sad would it be if that were all there were!
As I see it, Siri Guru Granth Sahib ji and Sikhi, in general, and this shabad, in particular, show us the ultimate meaninglessness of Maya and the soaring delight, the peace and joy that await us when we are able to accept it.
From the hollowness of Maya, we are called upon to stop trying to find any lasting fulfillment within the fleeting confines of our mundane consciousness, to fall at the feet of the Guru and in doing so, to move beyond the ordinary, to touch the sky.
Part of the genius of Sikhi is that we are able to reach these heights while still living in the world of action, still doing the things people do everyday. This is where we are and what we do, all the time learning to overcome our fevered ego, learning to rest peacefully at the feet of Waheguru, experiencing the extraordinary in the ordinary, touching the sky while our own feet remain on the ground of the hollow world in which we live.
FOR THE WORLD IS HOLLOW AND I HAVE TOUCHED THE SKY - A Shabad
nwmu iDAwey so suKI iqsu muKu aUjlu hoie ]
pUry gur qy pweIAY prgtu sBnI loie ]
swDsMgiq kY Gir vsY eyko scw soie ]1]
myry mn hir hir nwmu iDAwie ]
nwmu shweI sdw sMig AwgY ley Cfwie ]1] rhwau ]
dunIAw kIAw vifAweIAw kvnY Awvih kwim ]
mwieAw kw rMgu sBu iPkw jwqo ibnis indwin ]
jw kY ihrdY hir vsY so pUrw prDwnu ]2]
swDU kI hohu ryxukw Apxw Awpu iqAwig ]
aupwv isAwxp sgl Cif gur kI crxI lwgu ]
iqsih prwpiq rqnu hoie ijsu msqik hovY Bwgu ]3]
iqsY prwpiq BweIho ijsu dyvY pRBu Awip ]
siqgur kI syvw so kry ijsu ibnsY haumY qwpu ]
nwnk kau guru ByitAw ibnsy sgl sMqwp ]4]8]78]
sreeraag mehalaa 5 ||
naam dhhiaaeae so sukhee this mukh oojal hoe ||
poorae gur thae paaeeai paragatt sabhanee loe ||
saadhhasa(n)gath kai ghar vasai eaeko sachaa soe ||1||
maerae man har har naam dhhiaae ||
naam sehaaee sadhaa sa(n)g aagai leae shhaddaae ||1|| rehaao ||
dhuneeaa keeaa vaddiaaeeaa kavanai aavehi kaam ||
maaeiaa kaa ra(n)g sabh fikaa jaatho binas nidhaan ||
jaa kai hiradhai har vasai so pooraa paradhhaan ||2||
saadhhoo kee hohu raenukaa apanaa aap thiaag ||
oupaav siaanap sagal shhadd gur kee charanee laag ||
thisehi paraapath rathan hoe jis masathak hovai bhaag ||3||
thisai paraapath bhaaeeho jis dhaevai prabh aap ||
sathigur kee saevaa so karae jis binasai houmai thaap ||
naanak ko gur bhaettiaa binasae sagal sa(n)thaap ||4||8||78||
Siree Raag, Fifth Mehla:
One who meditates on the Naam is at peace; his face is radiant and bright.
Obtaining it from the Perfect Guru, he is honored all over the world.
In the Company of the Holy, the One True Lord comes to abide within the home of the self. ||1||
O my mind, meditate on the Name of the Lord, Har, Har.
The Naam is your Companion; it shall always be with you. It shall save you in the world hereafter. ||1||Pause||
What good is worldly greatness?
All the pleasures of Maya are tasteless and insipid. In the end, they shall all fade away.
Perfectly fulfilled and supremely acclaimed is the one, in whose heart the Lord abides. ||2||
Become the dust of the Saints; renounce your selfishness and conceit.
Give up all your schemes and your clever mental tricks, and fall at the Feet of the Guru.
He alone receives the Jewel, upon whose forehead such wondrous destiny is written. ||3||
O Siblings of Destiny, it is received only when God Himself bestows it.
People serve the True Guru only when the fever of egotism has been eradicated.
Nanak has met the Guru; all his sufferings have come to an end. ||4||8||78||
Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji p.44
Yes, I am a Trekkie, a nerd of the classical variety. Although not as knowledgeable as some – I'd have to look up France Nuyen's middle name – I am nonetheless a huge fan. More importantly, Star Trek has integrated itself into my life.
In the episode whose name shares this piece's title, a group of people are, unknown to them, living inside a spaceship hurling toward a paradisaical promised land. One man, now very old, once climbed a mountain, an act strictly forbidden, reached up and felt the edge of the spaceship. Telling about this, he falls dead, his act of disobedience costing him his life.
This might all be allegorical (much of Star Trek is), but I'm not sure if this has anything to do with this shabad or why I am writing this Whatever the case the background may be interesting to some. It is to me.
I have made this picture to illustrate one of the meanings of this shabad to me. There are many other meanings, of course. This is just one. I am no scholar and I am certain others get deeper meanings from this; this is what I see now. I am not writing a line-by-line analysis; I leave that to others.
Every time I read this shabad that line comes to my mind; for me it sums up one of the meanings it sometimes has for me. After all is said and done, the world of Maya is shallow and meaningless, hollow. How sad would it be if that were all there were!
As I see it, Siri Guru Granth Sahib ji and Sikhi, in general, and this shabad, in particular, show us the ultimate meaninglessness of Maya and the soaring delight, the peace and joy that await us when we are able to accept it.
From the hollowness of Maya, we are called upon to stop trying to find any lasting fulfillment within the fleeting confines of our mundane consciousness, to fall at the feet of the Guru and in doing so, to move beyond the ordinary, to touch the sky.
Part of the genius of Sikhi is that we are able to reach these heights while still living in the world of action, still doing the things people do everyday. This is where we are and what we do, all the time learning to overcome our fevered ego, learning to rest peacefully at the feet of Waheguru, experiencing the extraordinary in the ordinary, touching the sky while our own feet remain on the ground of the hollow world in which we live.
FOR THE WORLD IS HOLLOW AND I HAVE TOUCHED THE SKY - A Shabad
Sunday, September 29, 2013
Ma Cher Pauline...
First she plucks us of our rights.
Then we remind her of who and what she is.
I'm not sure how La Marseillaise found its way into the mix. Are you Pauline?
(Not that it much matters since so few read my lonely little blog anyway.)
For those who may not know, Alouette is a song about a sweet lark having its feathers plucked out, bit by bit, as Pauline proposes to do with the rights of the people of Quebec. A lovely children's song.
Here is a translation.
Lark, nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you
I will pluck you the head
I will pluck you the head
And the head, and the head Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
I will pluck you the nose
I will pluck you the nose
And the nose, and the nose Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
I will pluck you the eyes
I will pluck you the eyes
And the eyes, and the eyes Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
I will pluck you the neck
I will pluck you the neck
And the neck, and the neck Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
I will pluck you the wings
I will pluck you the wings
And the wings, and the wings Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
Alouette, nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you
I will pluck you the back
I will pluck you the back
And the back, and the back Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you
I will pluck you the legs
I will pluck you the legs
And the legs, and the legs Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you Lark,
nice Alouette Lark
I will pluck you Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
I will pluck you the tail
I will pluck you the tail
And the tail, and the tail Alouette,
Alouette O-o-o-o-oh Alouette,
nice Alouette Lark I will pluck you
Read more: Children - Alouette (english Translation) Lyrics | MetroLyrics
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
DESTINY: NO SHEEP NEED APPLY
The sound needs more work. I know. A couple of you wanted to see it now, so here it is nin the director's preliminary cut.
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Still On My Feet
Yes, I am still standing on my feet. Barely, but still there. I am like the guy in the old Simon & Garfunkel song:
Not sure which one I like better.
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Radical Free Speech - How It Works
What follows below is a Facebook conversation primarily between Kulwinder Singh ji and myself. It will give some idea of how the idea of radical free speech actually works. Except for correcting misspellings and deleting our profile pictures and meaningless Facebook artifacts, this is exactly as it appears in Facebook. Since it is clearly marked with the Public icon, I see no reason it cannot be reproduced here.
Kulwinder Singh this is not necessarily true...
Inderjeet Kaur Perhaps not true for you.
Kulwinder Singh perhaps not true for many..
Inderjeet Kaur True only for those who believe in radical
free speech and act on that belief. Only a few.
Kulwinder Singh there are some ignorant Muslims here in
UK .. asking us to defend their right to say stuff (like some weird stuff) ...
will you defend that ?
Inderjeet Kaur Yes. As long as it is not a direct threat
of physical violence or legal fraud.
Kulwinder Singh speech to implement Sharia law in UK ..
would you defend that ?
Inderjeet Kaur I believe that all ideas, however, bizarre
can be expressed. Free speech especially protects unpopular or dangerous
speech. If I disagree with something, I am free to counter it...it's
governmental censorship I oppose.
Inderjeet Kaur Yes, they have a right to express their
ideas. Of course, I have an equal right to oppose them
Kulwinder Singh nah.. you said .. you will defend to the
death their right to say that .. so you will defend their right to say ...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psZBaJU_Cvo
Inderjeet Kaur If you shut them up, all morality aside,
you only drive them underground where you can't see what they're up to. You
can't stop them.
Kulwinder Singh we know what they saying ..they said it
before.. can we shut them up now ?
Inderjeet Kaur Shutting them up will not stop them. As I
said, it will only drive them underground. This way you can see clearly what
they are up to and devise a strategy to counter it.
Kulwinder Singh ^ G that was not your point though
Inderjeet Kaur I obviously disagree very strongly with
their beliefs and what they are trying to do. That doesn't change my stand on
their right to express their views.
Kulwinder Singh it was a simple statement ,"I will
DEFEND to the death your right to say it"
Inderjeet Kaur My point is that I support the right of
people to express their opinions, even when I violently disagree with them.
Kulwinder Singh so you would support their right for
speech (Hate speech)
Kulwinder Singh Last week .. UK has deported someone who
was doing the same thing (Hate speech) .. you think UK did the right thing ?
Inderjeet Kaur Yes, I would put myself in the line of
fire to defend their freedom of speech. I do not defend any imaginary right
they may believe themselves to have to commit violence. I support free speech,
not free violence.
Kulwinder Singh what about free speech that promote
violence ?
Inderjeet Kaur I am not in a position to judge what the
UK did in that case. In any case, a visitor to a country does not enjoy the
saME RIGHTS AS A CITIZEN OR PERMANENT RESIDENCE.
Inderjeet Kaur Any controversial TALK MAY promote
violence in some people's minds.
Kulwinder Singh He was not a visitor !
Inderjeet Kaur I myself have shouted "Khalistan Zindabad!" more than once.
Inderjeet Kaur It's hard to comment on a case where I
don't know the facts.
Kulwinder Singh So ?
Inderjeet Kaur I hope lots of people read this exchange.
It says a lot. In fact, I may do a c/p into my blog...although no one reads my
blog.
Prabu Venkat · Friends with Suranjana Roy Bhattacharya
khoon
ka badla khoon.. i don't think there were Muslims involved. that man is still
raking millions, apologies for intruding, but I must admit, here i find people
debating a topic after deciding upon the conclusion.
Inderjeet Kaur My conclusion is stated at the very
beginning. I believe in free speech...except direct threats of physical violence and demonstrable, legal fraud. This means I OPPOSE GOVERNMENTAL
CENSORSHIP AT ALL LEVELS.
Inderjeet Kaur Prabu ji, feel free to join in, no
apologies necessary. This is a public discussion and a good example of what
"the free exchange of ideas" means.
Inderjeet Kaur I realise that India, where every little
real or imagined slight sets off communal rioting and murder, is not ready for
this type of free expression. I don't live in India nor do I care to. Right
now, this will work only in the Western, industrialised world which has a history and tradition of
free speech. The freest has been in the USA, and that is what I use as my
model. The USA has done a lot of things wrong, very wrong, but this one thing
they have done right, IMNSHO.
RADICAL FREE SPEECH PICTURES
Image License: I, Inderjeet Kaur, the creator of this work, hereby release all images in this blogpost into the public domain. This applies worldwide. In case this is not legally possible, I grant any entity the right to use this work for any purpose, without any conditions, unless such conditions are required by law.
If this image is subject to copyright in your jurisdiction, I, Inderjeet Kaur, the copyright holder, have irrevocably released all rights to it, allowing it to be freely reproduced, distributed, transmitted, used, modified, built upon, or otherwise exploited in any way by anyone for any purpose, commercial or non-commercial, with or without attribution of the author, as if in the public domain.
 |
| Size A4 297 x 210 mm for printing in the civilized world |
 |
| Size 8.5" x 11" for printing in USA.. |
 |
| Size I use on my gmail signature 200 x 300 pixels |
 |
| Facebook cover size 851 x 350 pixels |
 |
| 300x300 Profile picture size. |
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Sean "Red" O'Connor (???? - April 10, 2013) - In Memorium
“Can’t they create their own fuckin Gods without bastardising ours?”
PROFANITY WARNING: Red’s speech tended to be profane and I’m not going to water him down to make his words acceptable to sensitive ears. Neither am I going to soften his speech and attitudes toward England and Englishmen. He detested both and that was part of him. He liked English women just fine, though, except for the nobility. When I tried to get him to see the illogic of this stance by reminding him that all men - even Saxons - come from women, he'd narrow his eyes and snort. A real snort. "I suppose every fuckin, bloody Saxon" - he rarely used the word English and never Angle - "has a mother, but we don't think of that. Woman embodies life, even a Saxon woman. And we Celts honour life." As usual, I found arguing with him just left me feeling a bit dizzy. Anyway...
·
I generally don’t mix my physical
universe friends with my online friends, but this time, I simply must
introduce you to a very old friend of mine, Sean “Red” O’Connor, a Communist
and a Republican. That statement is
meant to confuse my “American” friends, but will be immediately understandable
to my friends from Éire. (In Red’s honour, I will not use the name
Ireland in this piece; Red disliked it intensely. “Ire Land.
Land of Ire? Sure and that’s
wrong. Irish are people of joy and
laughter, song and dance, not ire. Until
you get us riled, I mean. Then we fight.
Like England. You’ve heard of
England? Damned, fucking Saxon scum, don’t
have the sense enough to stay in their own friggin land. The name is Éire.”
I make no attempt to write his brogue into this; I used to tease him
that he sounded like a stereotype from James Joyce that no one could understand. He’d beam with pride, “Sure and I am, at
that, me girl.” He used “Sure and…” as a
stereotypical Canadian uses, “eh?”)
I cannot remember a time when I didn’t
know Red. Colourful, loud, brazen,
profane, given to outbursts of temper one minute, gentle, calm, poetic the next. He saw no point in a balanced
approach to life. Life is to be lived to
the fullest, without reservation.
Anything else would be the purest blasphemy.
Speaking of blasphemy, religiously, he
was a very odd duck. An atheist
Catholic. He used the most evil of women to explain his atheism. “Most lovely creatures, these
ladies, the real ones, I mean, not the demons.
Me girl, what sort of God could create Maggie Thatcher or Indira Gandhi? More like a devil, if you ask me. Bah!
The Old Religion had the right idea.”
(He was very sympathetic to the Sikh Cause, as well as the Irish
Republican.) Although he denied belief
in a God, he was a great admirer of Jesus and, of course, Ste. Brigid and St.
Patrick and St. Columba. I remember him
once telling me that Ste. Brigid is really Érun, Mother Éire herself. He never styled himself a Celtic priest or
Druid or any such and had great contempt for the neo-pagans who fancied themselves
somehow spiritual descendants of the ancient Celts. “Can’t they create their own fuckin Gods
without bastardising ours?” That would
call for a shot of Kilbeggan. After a couple belts of whiskey, he'd toss back his thick mane of gloriously shining red hair and proclaim, "You know, those bloody, fuckin Saxons can never defeat us. You know why?" Of course, I knew; I had heard this dozens of times, but I loved it and always played along. "No, Red, why?" His eyes would get that twinkle I so loved, he'd put on his biggest, most mysterious grin, "We're Celts! We're magic! Can't no mortal fuckin Saxons defeat magic!"
He was a staunch Irish Republican,
supporter of sending the British back to where they came from (“Hell!”) and
reclaiming all of Éire,
“to make our land a nation once again.” It
was from him that I first heard the phrase “England’s Last Colony,” or rather “Fuckin Bastard England’s Last Bleedin Colony.” For the
sake of my “American” friends, I must point out that Irish Republicans are
polar opposite of American Republicans, who tend to be conservative,
mean-spirited, hard-hearted, rich and humourless. The Irish Republicans I have known are generally
socialist, generous, kind-hearted working class people with humour emanating
from the pores of their bodies, until their freedom is jeopardised. Then they fight in any way necessary to be
free.
One slight oddity about him. He disliked the flag of the Irish Republic and refused to fly it because he considered the orange an insult to the Irish Republican patriots and insisted that if they must have a tricolor, it should be the true Irish colours, green, white and gold, not orange. In truth, though he really preferred the old golden harp flag, which does have the advantage of being most distinctive. This is very similar to the one he flew each year on St. Patrick's Day. And Ste. Brigid's Day. And St. Columba's Day. And other occasions and non-occasions as the fancy struck him.
One slight oddity about him. He disliked the flag of the Irish Republic and refused to fly it because he considered the orange an insult to the Irish Republican patriots and insisted that if they must have a tricolor, it should be the true Irish colours, green, white and gold, not orange. In truth, though he really preferred the old golden harp flag, which does have the advantage of being most distinctive. This is very similar to the one he flew each year on St. Patrick's Day. And Ste. Brigid's Day. And St. Columba's Day. And other occasions and non-occasions as the fancy struck him.
Red’s dearest wish was to go to Éire and join the IRA
(Irish Republican Army). That, however, was
impossible. From early childhood, Red’s
body was confined to a wheelchair, a result of polio when he was little more
than a baby. He had been brought to the
Canada for medical treatment and, although he lived, his physical recovery was
incomplete and his health always precarious.
Not only were his legs withered, but he also had great difficulty
breathing. Until his marriage, he lived
with his parents, a sickly young person, with the spirit of a dragon. At home they mostly spoke Irish (Gaelic) and
he developed an almost exaggerated brogue.
Unable to go fight, he had an old
but still serviceable Armalite rifle that he slept with – fully loaded, I must
add – and many the times, I’ve heard him singing (yes, he did keep changing the location.
This was his favourite.):
And it's up close near to
Long Kesh that’s where I long to be
Lying in the dark with a Provo company
A comrade on me left and another one on me right
And a clip of ammunition for me little Armalite!
Lying in the dark with a Provo company
A comrade on me left and another one on me right
And a clip of ammunition for me little Armalite!
Red was a great friend to me. Whenever I would get teary about some real or
imagined wrong as little and sometimes big girls do, he’d become the gentle man
of love and sweet words. He’d always
sing to me,
There's
a tear in your eye,
And I'm
wondering why,
For it never should
be there at all.
With such
pow'r in your smile,
Sure a stone
you'd beguile,
So there's
never a teardrop should fall.
When your
sweet lilting laughter's
Like some
fairy song,
And your eyes
twinkle bright as can be;
You should laugh all the while
And all other
times smile,
And now,
smile a smile for me
Of course, I’d smile – how could I
not? – and he’d go on at the top of his lungs
When
Irish eyes are smiling…
I’d try to interrupt, “But Red, my
eyes aren’t Irish!” He’d lean over and
stare into my strange blue-green-grey-brown eyes, smile and just keep singing.
"Ye're a Celt, me girl. A bloody fuckin magical Irish Celt. Sean O'Connor knows 'em when he sees 'em." At such moments he was charming and irresistible
beyond words and I tried not to get angry at the people and situation that so
often had him upset and angry. And, of course, he was right. I was much-delighted to learn from genealogical research and DNA testing that I really have a strong claim to being Irish. I'm enough of a lady (in public) to leave offthe various adjectives he used.
Back in 1967 he introduced me to the
Irish Freedom fight and I have been a supporter ever since, although, I admit, not
with his fervor. He understood that I
have my own people and my own battles to fight.
He taught me all the revolutionary Irish songs, old and new, and he
introduced me to some of the people who came to be so much a part of my life,
Wolfe Tone, Roddy McCorley, Kevin Barry and his great hero, James Connollly,
among others. He would sing the Connolly ballad
at the top of his lungs, stopping at the curse on England, speaking, not
singing it, in his most virulent tones and his slightly altered words:
God’s curse on you, England, you
cruel-hearted monster,
Your vile deeds they shame
all the devils in hell.
He would always end the song with a
bellowing FUCK THE QUEEN! Followed by a
softer, “if you’re not afraid of getting syphilis.” In spite of this, his hatred of England did
not extend to his social life. Although
everyone knew his strong beliefs, he had quite a few English friends. He did not moderate his speech around them in
the least. I suppose they must have
understood that his vitriol was aimed at the situation and those actually
fighting and not at them.
His health was so precarious that he
was only twice able to return to the land to which he dedicated his existence. The first was before I was born. I remember well when he returned from his
second visit in 1980, at the heights of what is euphemistically called the Troubles
with two tattoos: Tiocfaidh ár lá with a shamrock and the cryptic 26 + 6 = 1 He avoided “The Occupied
Counties” (he never called them anything
else) only because of his health. It's hard to be a freedom fighter when you can neither walk nor breathe. I believe the most significant
stop on his visit was at Errigal. (“Just Errigal, any more name is gilding the
fuckin lily. Heaven on earth it is and where my soul will
journey when at last I escape this useless body. Sure Errigal is heaven, nowhere else.”) When he returned, I saw a man on fire and
could only wonder what he might have been if his body were whole. I understand now very well the frustration of
wanting to do so much but being held in check by a disabled body. One, perhaps small thing, after his return, I
never saw his Armalite. When I asked him
about it, he grinned widely and said, “I expect it’s lying with a comrade on its
left and another one on its right with a full clip, ready for action. How he managed that I’ll never know, but he
was a determined and resourceful man who pretty much did whatever he wanted. Except to walk, of course.
The deaths of the ten hunger strikers
in 1981 did something hard and permanent to him. He was still our friend Red, of course, and
he still had his considerable charm and spark of life, but there was new depth
in him, a sadness, a seriousness, perhaps a bitterness, which had been lacking
before. There was no bottom to the pit
of his hatred of Margaret Thatcher. Those
deaths were very personal to him, as if they were his own brothers. I guess they were, at that. I think it was no coincidence that he died two days after her. He couldn't make that final journey until he knew that she was safely dead and burning in a hell he didn't believe in.
One strange and very visible outcome of the death of the ten patriots was that he vowed never to cut any hair anywhere on his body until
One strange and very visible outcome of the death of the ten patriots was that he vowed never to cut any hair anywhere on his body until
The last time I saw him was in the mid-1990s,
during my last trip to New York City, where he had moved for medical care. We
were both older and possibly wiser and had been through our separate wars. He was very ill and the doctors told Fiona to
prepare for his funeral. A priest, whom he promptly threw out, came to give
him last rites. He weakly sat up and
started singing Finnegan’s Wake, a totally
memorable occasion for me in a decade where I have lost most of my memory. He grew stronger with each note and by the
end, he was sitting up unaided. He
bellowed, OK, it wasn’t quite a bellow, but it was a strong request, a demand
actually, for a full bottle of Kilbeggan. Proof again that doctors only believe they are gods.
So how old was Red when he
died? That's anybody's guess. I asked him once when he was born and got a
bunch of silver-tongued malarkey about being born before the days when Mother Érun rose the land from
beneath the seas. At least I think it
was malarkey…
He was a controversial figure, loud, brash, often violent (verbally only, though), bad tempered, smoking and drinking way too much. Opinionated, rough, prejudiced, with a really wicked sense of humour. But he was also as he would have put it, "damned, bloody, fuckin lovable. " And magical. There was something magical about the man. The world is a bit less colourful with him gone.
He was a controversial figure, loud, brash, often violent (verbally only, though), bad tempered, smoking and drinking way too much. Opinionated, rough, prejudiced, with a really wicked sense of humour. But he was also as he would have put it, "damned, bloody, fuckin lovable. " And magical. There was something magical about the man. The world is a bit less colourful with him gone.
I have taken a picture of Errigal and
placed it in the heavens. I think he is
that greenish galaxy near the summit and believe I can see him throwing Maggie
Thatcher off it, presumably to her eternal damnation.
Godspeed, Red, wherever you are.
NOTE: If some of the names and events I've written about here are unknown to you, I suggest to google them. Irish history, both modern and ancient is fascinating. Assuming you are reading this online where I published it, you have at your fingertips the sum total of the knowledge of humanity, almost all of it anyway. I suggest you use it. Likewise with the lyrics to the songs. I believe all are easily available except "The Eyes Of Th IRA Are Upon You."
NOTE: If some of the names and events I've written about here are unknown to you, I suggest to google them. Irish history, both modern and ancient is fascinating. Assuming you are reading this online where I published it, you have at your fingertips the sum total of the knowledge of humanity, almost all of it anyway. I suggest you use it. Likewise with the lyrics to the songs. I believe all are easily available except "The Eyes Of Th IRA Are Upon You."
RELATED SONGS either mentioned or implied. Many of these songs are IRA songs and the language will be offensive to some. The ideas in them might be even more offensive to certain people. Tough. I believe in free expression. And I support the cause of Irish freedom.
There are many videos of these songs. I have chosen ones Red would have liked. I know he especially loved the Kennedy Memorial, singing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling." This video of Finnegan's Wake has an introduction that sort of explains the song and is well worth listening to.
Go On Home British Soldiers (This is NOT hate speech; it's a song of Unrepentant Fenian Bastasrds)
Go On Home British Soldiers
Go On Home British Soldiers
Fiona asked me to design a mural in his memory for a wall in their family room. I had not intended this to be it, but she loves the picture, so there you have it. I'll make an Irish Republican picture for another wall. He deserves both.
And I know Queen Maeve is generally considered to be a blonde. I have taken artistic licence and given her black hair; I like the effect.
About the picture: Queen
Maeve and Mother Érin accompanied by St. Patrick in the shadow of
Errigol, a tribute to a dear friend who fought the good fight for many
years against all odds. I have no doubt Red is even now somewhere
expounding upon the Communist Manifesto, his dear old Armalite slung
over one shoulder and a banshee-screaming Maggie Thatcher slung over the
other. A happier sight never before seen. Queen Maeve deserves a faery
relaxing on her cairn. The prototype for the Ladies is from a painting by Bottecelli
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