Captain’s Log: Reflections on a Successful Voyage

This month has been, if nothing, a success. There are things I did not manage to accomplish like visiting Derry, Knowth, Sweeney’s. I didn’t work on the novel I have been considering, I didn’t write a play inspired by Irish history. However, I have succeeded in making connections in a vast community of writers. I have written a play I will probably expand. I have become more aware of worldly events; Brexit, the dynamics of Northern Ireland and the Republic. I’ve seen Francis Bacon’s workshop; I’ve walked the path of the 1916 Rising. For all the things I haven’t done I am grateful for all that I had the opportunity to do.  There is much more to write but I am overwhelmed. Forgive my brevity.

Advertisements

ieiMedia the Musical

13732063_10207594123746539_8370010784960388235_o

I love this monkey-rabble. I was a nervous wreck. I thought I would pass out. I thought I would beat the crap outta Lexi. My script lost its staple. I had a plan to yell at James and break the fourth wall if anything went wrong. I stared at one women in the front row the whole time until she got nervous.

So, we messed up. We flubbed our lines; we didn’t get the music stands. We drank A LOT of wine, but it was awesome and perfect. It was wonderfully hard work hacking out the plays and then polish them up into something very shiny. I do wish, though, we could have introduced the play writes with their plays.

 

Leaked music video for our new album: BE A MAN

Captain Log: Day 1; Hewitt System

Day 1: Brexit. 1916. We are afraid.

I am enlightened. I didn’t realize the gravity of the Brexit vote, nor the logic behind the vote to leave. That is, there was very little logic and very much gut instinct, evidently. The Imperial mentality still runs deep into the British blood. It’s always fascinating to watch the psychology of politics and see the universality of human decisions.

The Crime Novel workshop is a bit, as of day one, lecture heavy. And author heavy. Everyone has a book or is writing a book minus the five girl under 30. And I don’t actually like crime novels. I’m just in it for the money.

 

Before and After Photos

then and now

I was a snake with arms. Now I am a snake with arms and tears.
There are many little things I have learned. I have seen and heard the difference between Northern Ireland and the Republic. I have made friendships I could not have made without this program. Friendships that I hope will be…valuable.

 

scheming snake

A snake with arms schemes.

I cannot yet tell you how this trip has changed me. This journey is not yet done; it may never be done. A trite thing to say, but valid regardless of overuse. It is difficult for me to mark my progress when my goals reach farther than I have come. Perhaps my reluctance to measure my growth is fueled by my trepidation at this journey’s end. To mark a terminus is to, well, mark a terminus. Don’t let it end yet.

Look at the Stars and Know You Are an Axle for the Universe

I am self absorbed. I rarely, if ever, think about audience. When I write, I write for character. The audience is an abstract concept; a group of faceless peoples my brain might spare an algorithm for, if only to calculate the most probable outcome for a given line, syntax or diction choice. I am at the young, budding point in which I must maintain “artistic integrity” instead of “pandering to the audience.”

As such, I should pay more mind for the audience. To make a meal for people without considering their tastes will end with a feast uneaten.

Haytham al-Bakhoum: Margaret’s Idiot

Haytham al-Bakhoum. Born in Cairo, Egypt to a Muslim father and an Irish Catholic mother. He lived there until he was five, when his mother moved both herself and him to Ireland to escape the beginning of the Egyptian nationalism movement. Haytham was very shy and took remedial classes to teach him English, though he never got rid of a very slight accent. He was always the oldest in his class. He is self-conscious of his accent, his age, that he “isn’t really Irish.” When he was older he fought with his mother to change his name, but she refused. He isn’t grateful for that, but he has made his peace with whom he is. He managed to get work in a bookbinder’s shop out of secondary school; he never went to university. It disappointed his mother, but they didn’t have the money for schooling anyway. He met Anne at the shop and dated her briefly until he met Margaret at a Christmas party. Margaret began to pursue him with a passion until he finally relented and their relationship progressed swiftly from dates to engagement to marriage. She used to harass him about her age, “I’m not getting any younger, Haytham! If you want children, we need them now.” She would make him laugh. They fought terribly over what it eant to be Irish. When their son was born, Haytham panicked and almost named him Winston after the cigarettes the doctor was smoking. Margaret was aware enough to call him an idiot and named the child Michael. When Michael was five, Haytham took them both for a day on the town. They died there.

Least Problematic Fav

That’s a lie. I love Ullauch. I AM Ullauch. I am emotionally attached to her struggle. I improved her monologue. I am biased.

Beside that, I like Bernadette for her emotions and actions as a contrast to James. I like Margaret because she’s multifaceted. I like Árchú because he’s quietly terrifying.

I just don’t have a favorite. I’m sorry.

Live Blogging: Character: Margaret

I’ve been thinking how…unsatisfactory the response to Margaret was. So, I did some soul searching and now I am live blogging like a fekkin medium channeling Margaret. She has a lot to say about NOTHING RELEVANT.

Margaret just wants to on and on about HAYTHAM. Her HUSBAND. When he smiled his eyes crinkled around the edges and he lost a molar when he was younger and so he smiles to one side and looks roguishly handsome at the age of forty two. He had brown hair with dusty trails in it. Margaret ignored several suits from other men and broke off an engagement because she was WAITING FOR HAYTHAM.

Margaret loves roses because they take a lot of hard work and are delicate and stately. She cried when her son first got hold of her tiny garden and trampled a rose bush. Of course, Michael was crying, too, because roses hurt. Margaret learned to forgive loss and accept the memories of things lost to be far more valuable than the pain of loss itself. Love is renewable, after all. Loss fades over time.

Michael was born frail and Margaret, an old mother, was exhausted for days after the birth. Haytham probably drank enough coffee to kill him. Michael took after his grandfather on him mother’s side–fair like an angel. He was a sweet kid who loved dirt and dogs.

Look, so, Haytham took Michael for a “boy’s day” so Margaret could take a day off to love roses and drink tea (with a bit of strong). She didn’t learn until much later that her son and husband were gone; evaporated like a localized Hiroshima.

While she was numb a black dog came to her door and scratched and whined until she let it in. Then she dreamed what to do. What she couldn’t find, the dog found. When she didn’t resurface after her husband and son died, her family decided she had died with them.

She made a crooked peace with the death of her son and husband while gathering her materials for the crossroads ritual. When we see her she is sad and hanging to thing world by a thread.

BELFAST LIKE A BOSS

To the tune of “Like a Boss.”

WENT TO BELFAST IN BELFAST LIKE A BOSS

(LIKE A BOSS)

MET LYNCH 

(LIKE A BOSS)

TOUCHED MY BUTT

(ON ACCIDENT)

WENT TO HOSTEL

(LIKE A BOSS)

CHECKED IN

(LIKE A BOSS)

BACK TO BELFAST

(LIKE A BOSS)

LOST MY VOICE

(LIKE A BOSS)

GOT LOST

(LIKE A BOSS)

NEXT DAY

(LIKE A BOSS)

NO BREAKFAST

(LIKE A BOSS)

ST. GEORGES MARKET

(LIKE A BOSS)

FEKKIN SHELAH

(IS A BOSS)

GOT SOME TATS

(WITH THE BOSS)

WENT HOME

(LIKE A BOSS)

WROTE THIS BLOG

(LIKE A BOSS)

NOW I’M DONE

(LIKE A BOSS)