In einer eMail vom 02.11.2006 11:14:09 Westeuropãische Normalzeit schreibt FBCorcoran:
We jerky little kids swung our then little limbs over that then little style ( – DonnellyÂ´s sawn-off instrument had successfully shot my priestly vocation to tatters. ), that escape-path from our Â´Aras MÃ³r leading to a hole-in-the-wall, our walk or you push de flat bipeds toward angelic Sister Augustine and walk tall Sister Senan and their mountainy Hidden Object of Tabernacular Adoratio, wasnÂ´t it Big Mister Â´Eamonn MÃ³r DÃ© .
I am past ” forgiving ” ? – No, dope, my PIANO TRIO of your 1977 was our CÃºchullanistik. No, years later I did have to FEEL that ASSYMETRIC grey – plus – Brahms piano-interior .Yes, forgive Hugh DonnellyÂ´s shotgunÂ´s sawn-off sound ? Yes, forgive my tattered vocation? Forgive also, up at our styles, a childÂ´s thrust towards fulfilling the heroÂ´s crazy project? Forgive the Tabernacle and all who canÂ´t forgive themselves? We were jerky, all so little, help us in out of the forlorn cold . It was dire. Not a piano-trio as yet in my childish imagination, it was the sound of sawn-off thunder. How could they let us loose beyond the limits of the style in the wall ? I know my little limbs were blue with cold, how about yours in cold Ãras MÃ³r ? Smell the explosion , hark to our thousand awakened rooks yelling blue murder under a leaden night-sky ; I was no match for the CÃºchullans above at the square where never a drop of Vesevo White soccoured our parents ; no glass and a half Â´d stop blue child-abuse, though Ãras MÃ³r featured lead-pipes and lead roof-lining, had included once Thomas MannÂ´s red wines ( after all, his own LÃ¼becker Rotspon evening-glass did look the other way as his childer turned all blue ).
I hardly knew my young bodyÂ´s lower half in our Â´Aras MÃ³r cold mansion of a Saturday Night Is Bath-Night. Nor did ever actually see the white wine” Vesevo”, our Celto-Hanseatic snobsÂ´ ” Sannio Falanghina” . Nor could my SetantaÂ´s hurley-stick ever hope to open a Thomas Mann bottle of ” Vin Pays dÂ´Oc” ( – apparently it used to arrive as his own red ” Rotspon von LÃ¼beck” , imagine! ) . But could I shriek for us five children at the style, for our rooks and our parentsÂ´ ” Heal Yerselves, Mites, YeÂ´ll Have To ” throughout that long October forbidden night of the shotgun? Could I?
Ask not now from which LÃ¼beck wine-cask Immanuel Kant smelled our twisted wood . Even I still smell my very own private child-abuse, our milking, his honey. Indeed, his milking of my honey. Not a bottle of Tipperary Red Rotsporn was found aboard the rubber raft for the five orphans. Sing, Thomas MannÂ´s desolate, blue-white children, my old favourite, how well we know that Lied “HOW SWEETLY WE SHIVER NOW” . What bliss at whose cool pianoforte for blue-cold little, precious witnesses ? Want little, waste little. Whinge little, for ye shall not be heard.