JOURNAL 11 septembre 2026

Je n'ai pas pu raconter : Tom était là aujourd'hui, il a fait ses exercices. Il s'applique, il est lourd, il est maladroit, il est trop grand, il est touchant. Il ferait mieux d'essayer le kendo, mais non c'est mon enseignement qu'il veut aussi longtemps que ce sera nécessaire il m'a dit. Apparemment il n’a pas de problème de visa. Je pense qu’il a beaucoup de tunes, ici ça aide fortement.

#dojo

It all started..

Last year, I had the opportunity to travel south to an analog studio belonging to my friend, bkbirge. I didn’t know it at the time, but this awoke in me a desire to mix less and play more. I learned that intention and vision are audible if you visualize it and intend it. I learned that if I get it down sounding how I like it, there’s a lot less mixing to do. This is all good stuff. Not only do I stink at mixing, I don’t really like it that much. It stresses me out. It often makes me feel like I am trying to pay attention to a spoken conversation while reading a text on my phone. I don’t get much of either. While the music is going in the monitors, I might not hear what I need to because I am looking at some kind of readout. Stop the madness.

How do I do this?

Since that trip, I have been thinking about how to switch things up. I find myself with a hybrid mixing set up now. So, mixing isn’t the issue it was. I have been able to record with effects like compression and gate so that the track sounds the way I want, and I don’t have to spend effort repairing files. I’m really into all this at the moment. But it isn’t just with gear or mixing; it’s also a mindset in my songwriting.

What do songwriting and The Big Bang have in common?

I searched for “How to write a rock song” on Google and found a summary of most tips I’ve heard in various forms. Even the time signature of 4/4 is mentioned. The article discusses riffs, building a verse-chorus structure (some people call this arrangement), and making room for a solo. However, it doesn’t really answer my question. Just like The Big Bang, a song bursts forth and evolves over time, each set of ears, a new explosion. But what is the core essence of the original song? What sparked that initial explosion? Isn’t that what you’re aiming for—an explosion? Songs require elements like explosions and fires do. But it’s during the early stages, not the polishing phase, that the magic of song happens.

Relax, if you’re nervous, I know the answer, happy to answer it. It was just dramatic writing.

The message.

The explosion happens when message comes across. The explosion is receiving a message from the music. All it is. If your music doesn’t contain message, that’s probably worth looking into. It’s what folks want from music they like. Even if the message is have fun, or party on, or relax, or vote, if it speaks to them in song, that’s message. That is the ingredient I find lacking in scores of music I do not vibe with, message. You could even say intent. But it doesn’t have to be intentionally.

Think about liking a song for the first time, or the thousandth.

If you are vibing with a song, someone has learned your language and started rattling it off to you. It is a good feeling. And no one is even speaking! If you aren’t looking to provide that sensation for an intended audience, as a musician, you make it difficult for the audience to participate in your conversation. It is no longer about them, it is about you. You aren’t speaking their language, you are in yours. I am not saying that is wrong, but I am saying it’s not my message, personally.

Ideas are a commodity around here.

Before I feel like writing a song these days, I have to have an idea that makes me want to write it. I want the song to say something. For me, saying something means meaning something. If I am going to spend the effort on lyrics, playing all the instruments, getting with collaborators who do stuff better than me, spending money, practicing, working, I want the song to mean something to me. A message. A lot like a tattoo. You can see it, but this tattoo on my arm and Keri’s matching one we got at a vulnerable turning point together. We decided to stick it out with each other, to the end. And it’s been wonderful. Ideally, our songs are like that ink.

Fortunately, ideas are flooding me lately, and I am taking notes. I’ve talked before about creative writing exercises that help me a lot. I might start off with a letter I never intend to send. The person may be dead or gone from my life. I try to include atmospheric elements like stores, smells, and noises. I try to dig in myself for uncomfortable truths circling this person and own up to how silly I could have been, neglectful, hurtful, aloof, etc. After the letter is completed, I mine it for words and phrases. I likely have an idea because I dug. Digging usually digs up ideas. For me. This is just one kind of creative writing exercise I use often. There are loads of them. They pop up in Google.

Don’t skip the message.

I would not skimp on this step if I wanted to make an impact with music. Think of this step as shooting a bullet. Without it, you are throwing one. Give the listener something meaty to grab onto. Even if it is just you, this listener, give that to yourself. You deserve to have written a good song too.

Kelly Kintner, Editor, Producer

The Horses Mouth Magazine

The Kintners

Djembe Funk

College football will provide my Friday game of choice. The Villanova Wildcats are scheduled to play the Louisville Cardinals in a game starting at 6:00 PM CDT, and I plan to be listening to the radio call.

And the adventure continues.

We in the West are living in the midst of a jihad, and most of us don’t even realize it — because it’s a brand of jihad that’s barely a generation old. Islam divides the world into two parts. The part governed by sharia, or Islamic law, is called the Dar al-Islam, or House of Submission. Everything else is the Dar al-Harb, or House of War. It’s called the House of War because it, too, according to the Koran, is destined to be governed by sharia, and it will take war — holy war, jihad — to bring it into the House of Submission.

— Bruce Bawer, Surrender (2009)

Note: While certainly no ally of traditionalists and conservatives, Bawer certainly got this right. But don't take his or my word for it, read it for yourself in Reliance of the Traveler, a classic interpretation of Sharia Law. I'm glad to lend my copy to the curious. Do the work. Read primary sources, not the news.

#history #politics #theology

In writing The Campervan, my intent was to expose the invisible friction that exists between static belonging and dynamic mobility. A tension that is quietly defining modern Irish life. Mary and her unnamed visitor represent two entirely contrasting responses to the same foundational crisis: the sudden, altering reality of loss. Mary chooses the architecture of stasis. Her “exit road” from bereavement is built on preservation, strict domestic routines, and an aggressive defense of her physical boundaries – her view, her sea, her husband’s old preferences. To Mary, the encroaching campervans are not merely an aesthetic nuisance; they are mobile symbols of a fluid, modern world that threatens to overwrite her memories.

Conversely, the traveler’s exit road is one of motion and confrontation. He drives the very object of his grief back to the place of its making, using mobility as a mechanism for closure and eventual release. When these two perspectives collide over a simple kettle of water, the narrative shifts from a dispute about spatial intrusion to a shared recognition of human vulnerability. It is a reminder that the modern forces we often perceive as disruptions to our traditional heritage are frequently piloted by individuals carrying the exact same timeless griefs, histories, and traditions as our own.

If we are to successfully transform Ireland's communities, our policy frameworks must become as flexible and hospitable as Mary's kitchen table – capable of holding space for both those who need to stand fast, and those who need to move through.

The Campervan can be found at https://rvw.ie/the-campervan

Addendum

Temporal Friction and the Lived Experience of Governance

Transforming Ireland is the title I have chosen for a forthcoming series of the opportunities and the impact of the circular economy. And the Campervan is an experiment on how I might use fiction to illustrate those impacts.

In The Campervan, my aim was to look past the technical vocabulary of spatial planning and examine the human impact of what policy analysts call “temporal friction.” This friction occurs when macro-level regional development frameworks move at one speed, while the socio-emotional landscape of an established community moves at another.

Mary’s sudden exasperation – captured in her plea that “The Council should do something about it, it's not fair” – is a classic manifestation of this disconnect. To an administrator looking at a map or an infrastructure portfolio, the influx of mobile domestic tourism along our coastline represents a successful activation of public assets or a metric of regional economic diversification. However, to the resident on the ground, it can feel like a sudden, unmediated disruption of local spatial heritage and personal stasis.

References:

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/press-releases/report-on-national-coastal-change-management-strategy-sets-out-long-term-blueprint-to-deal-with-future-coastal-change/

https://irishgeography.ie/index.php/irishgeography/article/download/1484/1194/6030)

This tension underscores a core finding in recent spatial analyses, such as the OECD Rural Policy Review of Ireland. The report notes that Ireland's highly centralized administrative structures often lack the “spatial differentiation” required to fully account for how local people actually experience change. When national planning goals; whether under the National Planning Framework or coastal management strategies; are handed down to local authorities, the system often defaults to regulating spaces rather than facilitating the community transitions within them.

References:

https://assets.gov.ie/static/documents/1f40d206-report-of-the-inter-departmental-group-on-national-coastal-change-management-.pdf

https://www.gov.ie/en/department-of-housing-local-government-and-heritage/publications/overview-of-planning-in-ireland/

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

The story does not seek to arbitrate whether Mary’s desire for preservation or the traveller’s right to mobility is the “correct” use of the strand. Rather, it serves as an observation of a structural dilemma. If our evolving governance systems are to navigate the transformation of rural and coastal Ireland successfully, they must find a way to reconcile the swift, fluid movement of modern policy and tourism with the slower, deeply human timelines of the people who call those places home.

References:

https://www.oecd.org/en/publications/rural-policy-review-of-ireland-2026_d53ea78f-en/full-report/making-rural-policy-work-from-strategy-to-delivery_388f48d4.html

Regular readers of this space or Marshall On Policy, know that my work usually wrestles with the structural, economic, and policy frameworks required to navigate a transforming Ireland. Yet, policy documents and data models can only capture the mechanics of change; they rarely capture the human friction of living through it. In this post, I am stepping sideways from the traditional essay and briefing format into short fiction.

The Campervan is an exploration of perspective. When we debate community, local governance, and changing landscapes, we are ultimately debating how people adapt to the erosion of the familiar. This short story is an attempt to look at the invisible, internal boundaries we build when our outer world begins to shift, and how the “exit roads” we choose to navigate personal loss often mirror the ways we handle societal change. I hope you will indulge this departure, and as always, I welcome your reflections...

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The Campervan

Oh George, there's another one o' them campervans outside the window again. I know how you hate 'em. Blocking out the view of the sunrise. Hiding us from the sea. I've a good mind to go out and give 'em a piece of my mind. Great hunkin' lumps of steel. They shouldn't be allowed. Mary finishes opening up the curtains and worries away with a small damp cloth at some debris an insect seems to have left behind. Kettle boiled, cooker on and a short while later she takes out a tray of breakfast and places it on an old cast-iron and terracotta table, midway between front door and garden gate; the centre piece of her seaside patio. She wipes the chairs and arranges the table. A brightly striped seaside linen table cloth and a posy of daisies in a small white vase.

Out again. – Yes cries Mary, makin' the best of it while we can. Summer never seems to last long. And when it does there's always them pesky mosquitoes. While flinging one arm in the direction of the campervan parked just beyond her gate. Mary notices a hold-all and a couple of cardboard cartons. Going away Maureen? – Oh, just to my sister's place for a couple of days. Mum and dad are coming to visit so we thought we'd all get together for the weekend. – Oh how lovely. It's aways nice to get together with family. How's your dad doin' now, any better? – Oh much Mary, they 'ave 'im on a new drug and it seems to be workin' wonders. – Grand. Give 'em all our best wishes. – Will do Mary. See you in a couple of days.

Mary returns to her breakfast, a brief conversation with George, and opens a book. The chapters glide by, the tide visits, the gleeful shouts of kids on holiday subside, and the evening and night pass by.

It's morning of the following weekend, and a small spider, comfortable in an upper corner of the window has clearly spent the early hours weaving and casting a delicate web. It scurries to conceal itself in its corner as the tread of Mary's feet announce her arrival at the window. She opens the curtain. It's still there George. Her shoulders slump. A sharp intake of breath and a long sigh. There's so many of them now, all up and down the strand. The Council should do something about it, it's not fair. This is our home, our sea. I know how you hate it George. She drags forcefully at the curtain and fails to notice the spider or its web.

She opens the front door. Better let the day in. Then I'll get breakfast as usual. – Alexa, give me some music. Modern music spills from a smart speaker on a mantlepiece. No No NO. Alexa stop the music. The music ends abruptly. Mary laughs and shakes her head. Great present George, but you really needed to set it up properly. Alexa play Local FM. – Soothing Sounds from Seaside FM, announces a voice from the speaker. Better. Mary mumbles, and hums and sings. She works seamlessly, as breakfast begins to appear. Tea and toasted tea cakes. I know she says, extravagant, but it's the weekend. And weekend is cleaning. After a lifetime as a working wife, it's a habit she just can't break. Work in the week, housework at the weekend. Afternoon arrives with dusting and vacuuming in the front room. It is rhythmically punctuated by glances through the window and scowls toward the campervan. Damned ugly things. Shouldn't be allowed. And the litany repeated. I'm gonna have to do something, have to do something Mary declared.

The doorbell rings. Followed by a couple of knocks. She looks up and through the window. Who could…. She switches off the vacuum, stows the handle and heads for the door. It's still open. A stranger. A man, tall, but a little casual. Not exactly a holiday maker, but not a door to door salesman either. He has a kettle in his hand. An ordinary hot water kettle. The council workers working on the sea defences used to come and ask for boiling water for their tea-break, but that was decades ago. Besides, he's got creases in his trousers, his brogues are highly polished and that's definitely not a council workman's shirt. He looks anxious, she thinks. Ah well if he's anxious, maybe I don't have to be. – Yes can I help you? – Oh please, he almost coughs it out. Yes, enquires Mary. – I've run out of gas. She repeats him, You've run out of gas. But this, more as a statement than a query. Well this is not a shop, I don't sell it here. His face turns pale, she traces the contours, she recognizes the anguish. He begins to turn away. Well what is it you want. She's surprised by the tone of her own demand. She tries to recover it and offers a smile. It works. He stops his turn and looks towards her. He raises his left arm, kettle in his hand. Water, hot water. – Mary almost laughs, his words sound just like a kettle when it's full of too much boiling water and it just won't pour. Oh, give it here. I'll pop it on the stove. She takes it from him and starts to laugh. But you didn't need to bring your own water, I would have given you some.

She beckons him to follow her into the kitchen and she places the kettle on the stove. Take the weight off your legs. She points at an unpolished beach chair. You should be comfortable in that, my George made it. Would you like a cuppa whilst you wait. – No, I shouldn't trouble... – Well you going to get one, I'm ready for my afternoon cuppa anyway. Mary busies herself tidying away the cleaning tools, arranging the table and making the tea. The man sits quietly in the unpolished beach chair. He seems to be a man practiced at waiting, like something has silenced him without warning, and the shock is slowly settling; so now all he can do is wait. In contrast Mary's cycling back and forth between the small domestic tasks echoes a train building up a head of steam. And I suppose that's your monstrosity out there is it? She points through the open door down the hallway, out through the front door, directly at the campervan. He half raises himself from the chair to lean and peer toward the van. Yes, yes I'm afraid it is. My wife and I bought it just under a couple of years ago. It's our retirement treat.

She looks directly at him. It's a damned monstrosity, is what it is. Huge hunkin piece of metal spoilin' the morning sun and blockin the view of the sea. You shouldn't be allowed. What were you thinkin'. Did you think we wus a factory and the view didn't matter. – Ah You weren't thinkin were you … thoughtless – spoiled our week that has.

Still staring at him, she blinked. He was struggling to speak. Dazed, he couldn't articulate. I, I. He began. Well you should think more. Softly this time, and passes him a mug for his tea, as she interogates herself. What's wrong with him, he's dazed – I wasn't that nasty. -So you bought the campervan when you retired? Where've you been? There's lots of gorgeous spots along this coast. George and I were avid cyclists when we were younger. Avid. Cycled all up and down this area. Sunday picnics and what not, You know the kind of thing. – Yes, yes, we would do the same. We had a tandem and a bit of picnic basket. It was great, sometimes on our own, sometimes with the club. Sundays were great back then. – Yes they were echoed Mary, adding If we weren't cycling we all used to play cricket or rounders on the beach. Great times.

So where's your wife now? Do you want to fetch her, I'll get another cuppa and some biscuits and we can chat. She watched the colour drain from his face and the contours of anguish return. She, she's not travelling with me now. His hands work their way around the mug. Mary watches, caught up in his demeanour; grip intense, knuckles white. He lifts the mug towards his mouth. And rotates the handle away from him, slowly as he gazes into the drink, looking, for something. We only ever came here. This spot was our first holiday in the van, last year. Oh we had a fabulous time. Revisiting all those old cycling haunts, and finding new ones, restaurants, café's, coastline walks. It was really really great.

Mary presses her question. So where is she now then, if you had such a good time? The contours grew deeper, the skin grew paler, the twinkle left his eyes as drops began easing slowly from them. It was. it was just after. Another stall, a splutter, a stutter and then. She died. Silence. A moment passed. Neither moved, neither spoke. So I thought I'd sell the van, but one, one last trip here, just to remember. Mary, without moving, without breathing, watched him grind to a halt. The tears and the shaking in full flow now.

I'm sorry about the view… She put her arms around him in the chair. Hush, hush she whispered, no need to be bothered about such things now. Slowly recovered. I must be going, I have promises to keep. – Are you OK to drive? Do you know where you are going. – Yes, Yes I'll be fine… Thankyou so much for your hospitality and again my sincere apologies. – Forget it, I mean it. She ushered him gently through the door and watched as he packed away and regained his composure until he was sitting ready to drive. Mary waived him away. She stood at the gate as the tide made its visit. Eventually she returned into the house and closed the front door.

Crossing the front room to the mantle piece, her hand extended forwards past the smart speaker which had now fallen silent, and took hold of a leather frame with the photo of a man, Oh George.

___

Further reading

A a note from The Essayists Notebook https://esy.ie/the-shared-landscape-of-grief

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If you’d like to get new essays by email:

I went to Costco and I was dressed like a bum because I took the day off, last night I got home Late and I had the Taco Bell Baja blast that apparently has a pretty substantial amount of caffeine to it. As a result, I could not sleep at all due to restless leg. I ended up actually getting up at 3:30 out of my bed because I could not sleep and going on a jog around the neighborhood shirtless. I eventually was able to sleep, but I called out of work because I felt like there was no way I could’ve been productive. But I digress, the thing I was asked in Costco, however, was about the macros on the chicken bakes that I got, and they commented about how it’s obvious I lift. I told him honestly I don’t really know, I am not locked in on my diet like that, and he was shocked and taken aback by that. I feel like I get that pretty often, and honestly, I’m not completely sure why I am able to have the body I do while still eating like trash. But part of me feels guilty because when I tell people that I don’t know if this is necessarily reasonable for everyone or if this is another spot where I’ve gotten incredibly genetically lucky. I think about how maybe my metabolism is pretty good, but I also did get very overweight or I guess very overweight compared to what I was used to when I truly ate horribly. But now I exercise very consistently and for a lot of time. Typically I just end up saying because I work at very hard. That’s why I get the benefits that I have, but I’m not sure if this applies to everyone. It’s one of those things I’m grateful for and fortunate with, but I’m not sure if it is fair if that makes sense. It’s one of those things that I don’t want anyone to be envious of.

25 years ago I worked in a factory that was on the edge of a small town. I remember going out the back door that morning, 25 years ago. I was looking at the cloudless blue sky like I was expecting to see something. The events were still unfolding. Had just begun. All I saw out that back door was clear blue sky, and a field.

Back inside there was not much work being done. People were standing around near radios. When I first heard about what was happening I thought I was being told a joke. Sort of waiting for the punchline. After a few seconds I realized it was no joke.

Terrorism was not where my mind went. I thought it was a disgruntled airline pilot, maybe pissed off about something, and just fed up with life. A dramatic suicide. Until the second plane.

The world changed, and really not for the better. I type that with 25 years of hindsight between that morning, and this one. What can be said about the days, the months, the years between then and now? A lot I suppose.

I'm sure there are a lot of intelligent people out there in the world saying intelligent things about it today. And I'm typing this.

I remember right after, like within a few days, when we were being told, stop being so nice to each other. Get back to normal, and start buying things again. Get the economy back on track... or the terrorists won. The economy, man. The economy. Don't worry, we'll blow shit up soon. Just please, please get back to normal. That is all.

I didn't feel like that was the right reaction to have. It felt to me like saying, pretend that didn't happen. What then? What do I think the right reaction should have, or could have been? I don't know. Maybe figure out why it happened. Find the root cause, and prioritize fixing that instead of meeting the violence with more violence.

Don't most people (99%) on earth just want peace, and to have a good life for themselves and their families? A handful (1%) of shitty psychopaths have all the power and make life a terrible ordeal to suffer through for too many people. Stoking the fire of fear. Gimme, gimme gimme. Do this. Do that. Don't do that. Fear them. Fear us. Division. Distraction. Manipulation. Control. Endless conflict.

For fucking what? Is there an end goal those awful people have that is worth all this blatant neglect of our habitat, and all this death, destruction, division, hate, and ?

That's just fucking stupid. I'm out of coffee and out time. I know that I'm a dreamer. I got lost in the technocratic fantasy land in my mind where everything can be solved with diplomacy. Learning to work together, changing, growing up instead of blowing shit up, slaughtering each other, and destroying the planet.