The Art Of Imagination

Go On, Go On, Go On

A simple moment, an every day encounter, a motley crew of actors, a fragment of memory archived in time.

There are many kinds of stories. This is just one kind.

Ireland's public bus service is more red setter than greyhound; cheery and up for short runs rather than lean and long distance, quirky vignettes rather than horror stories.

A few years I was travelling at the front of the bus from Waterford to Cork in the South East of Ireland when middle aged man squezzed in beside me at Youghal, he breathed a Guinness welcome on me. Sure he was no harm he told me and asked would I join him for a pint in Midleton his final destination.

I bristled, contracted and pursed my lips in irritation. He wouldn’t be diverted from his intention, like a dog with a bone I had to shake him off his one track intention with the only thing that works in Ireland - conversation. The problem with that is that it opens things up for everyone else in the bus to get involved. The draper, heavy-set chap in the seat behind starts mumbling through the gap about getting the driver to stop at the hospital to pick up his medication because he had trouble with his mind. I wanted to say that is the trouble with all of us but bit my tongue rather than fan the fires.

Peter, my Guinness-breathing companion, for that was his name, had now told me about his early life in the USA, his work as a fitter, his wife who did her thing and let him do his - a recipe for a very happy marriage - his 5 children and their scatterling travels to Australia, Amerikay and Germany, the future daughter in law from Poland and the grandson in Canada.

A dewdrop of the Irish diaspora all in one family.

And it all kept coming back to that one drink he wanted to have with me in Wallaces’ in Midleton. He would forgive me not having an ould drop of the black stuff and would be happy to share a bottle of wine; he had never bought a whole bottle of wine. Despite the inevitability of this loop in our conversation I was beginning to enjoy Peter.

He told me about his visit back east to Kilkenny, the home place where his 84 yr old brother lives alone. Before he left that morning he got up and made him porridge, followed by rasher (of bacon) and sausages (he forgot the eggs, though there were plenty there), lit the fire and and he washed up the dishes. He also turned the heating full blast but was sure to turn it off before the brother came down.

I was softened by his caring and his mischievousness, I noticed the time-creased skin on his hands, the neat cleanliness of his nails, the white hair and the sharp lines of the recent haircut, his well worn corduroys and the comfort of his tweed jacket.

We covered a life time in 30km, the hard edges of separation transmuted into the soft burr of connection, two lives momentarily intersected. He was surprised to be at Midleton and had to gather himself abruptly but not before one last try of an invitation.

I held my ground as he mock complained to the bus driver about my lack of compliance. I watched his jaunty step up the street leaving the poignancy of our interlude behind on the seat beside me.

The Irish are genetically inclined to story telling, the gift of the gab or, less kindly, the art of bullshitting. It is an affliction I suffer from myself but the good news is that being an Imagination Technologist is about being a past master at story telling; stories that illuminate behaviour, stories that amplify potential, that illuminate possibility.

#storytelling #giftofthegab #imaginationtechnology #storiesofpossibility #makingitup