I must own this land, Mr. Redmond, I'm just a poor artist, I paint here each day---with my paint and my brush, I love the light and the hush--the way the light falls across Dublin Bay. I must own this land --it's an obsession, a confession I make--I'll take the train to Dublin today--the Bank of Ireland won't get in my way. Mr. Redmond, I've never owned anything at all--owning nothing is a delight for when you are close to nothing,you are close to the source of all Creation and to the Creator who made all things from nothing--nothing at all. On the walls of Georgian Mansions in Dublin, my paintings hang on the walls---these people are people of means, but they are not philistines,---they do not buy paintings to match the curtains --to match the drapes. I'll meet you here in the morning-- I'll take the train to Dublin today--the Bank of Ireland won't get in my way. My ancestors, centuries ago, owned land in Ireland,so I'm told----green gold, genetic memory, for now I must own this land to feel free-- Liberty I know you understand, Mr. Redmond. Please excuse my obsession I must be looking through the window of genetic memory--- one time the land belonged to my Sireland --- now I must own the land to feel free-- I'm disappointed in me, I confess it's an obsession for suddenly, I must own a little part of this land, not just to feel free but to know and possess liberty--- the liberty lost by my Sireland -- I trust you understand, Mr. Redmond---the fire of Liberty.
Kathleen, the Irish-American artist, who paints often in the summer in Ireland is one of many. When I sang and played the piano at the O'Hara Hotel in County Kerry for a summer, I became aware of many artists painting. Taxes for writers and artists who lived in Ireland the Republic, that is were greatly helped with tax exemption-- many writers Joyce-- Yeats their books everywhere, even in little commercial shops, many writers even before the oil-wealth time in the Irish Republic were world-renowned. Kathleen, the Irish-american artist in my song has felt so rich and so joyous in her creative ability as a visual artist, has no feeling at all of poverty. She has no desire to own and be distracted by the material-mechanical world, as she has such pleasure and personal fulfillment in her work, which she can sell to the well-endowed financially, who as she says to Mr. Redmond, do not buy paintings to match the drapes but are more or less heavily weighted down with their material world, and happy to acquire some of her paintings. Her sudden need to own an even small part of the land she is painting, shocks and surprises her inner peace and tranquility. Mr. Redmond, the Scotsman, who owns the estate land says nothing, but is a good listener, and says nothing to discourage her. Ireland has heard the Irish-American song before--many wealthy Irish Americans own large estates guarded and gated from the lonely genetic memory of famine. North-American major newspapers have carried pictures of the late President Kennedy and his exaltation and joy on his visit looking out over the land in Ireland and his face is held on the walls of little cottages in the republic of Ireland. So Kathleen is going off to the Dublin mansions and her proud mentors and as she boards the train, she assures herself---the Bank of Ireland won't get in my way, and Almighty God who makes everything from nothing, is with me.
