ShoeString

If anyone has a chance they should go to this... usually a great night.
It's a shame they keep having it on nights that I'm out of town lately... anyway, great value, great acts, great atmosphere etc etc - happening this Saturday.

This Saturday (27th) 8.30pm @ The James Joyce Centre, 35 North Great George’s Street, Dublin 1

One of Dublin’s best nights out for a recession-busting €10!

Music from Dublin’s Readers Wives Simon Jermyn

Comedy from Dundalk comic Colum McDonnell

Music from EleventyFour. Dorothy Cotter

Performance Poetry from Dubliner Noel Sweeney

Subtle songs from the iciclethieves.

Performance Poetry from Glaswegian Brian Conaghan


Tickets €10, Last admission is at 8:20 and show ends at 11:00. Limited Bar.

theshoestringcollective@gmail.com www.myspace.com/theshoestringcollective

Barred from TV

I’m not allowing myself to watch tv again (apart from Fair City obviously) until I’ve at least half of the 38 unread books that are languishing on the floor in the dining room read. We decided to declutter the bookshelf last week, and that’s how many there are that I want to read, some are his, some we got for free, some I bought, some materialised out of thin air, and are a joy, like “The diary of Balso Snell” by Nathaneal West, with the following little bit about libraries that I particularly liked:

“Two years ago I sorted books for eight hours a day in the public library. Can you imagine how it feels to be surrounded for eight long hours by books - a hundred billion words one after another according to ten thousand mad schemes. What patience, what labor are those crazy sequences the result of! What Starving! What sacrifice! And the fervors, deliriums, ambitions, dreams, that dictated them!...
The books smelt like the breaths of their authors; the books smelt like a closet full of old shoes through which a steam pipe passes. As I handled them they seemed to turn into flesh, or at lest some substance that could be eaten.”

I love all the exclamation marks - ah they knew how to punctuate in the thirties though, didn't they?!

Lucan Writers "At It" Again

I do have very talented friends. Lucan writers swept the boards last night at the "Saggart Oscars" - otherwise known as the Johnathon Swift awards. Each and every one of the shortlisted Lucanians came home with a first or second prize, no mean feat with the high standard of other entrants. Louise Philips and Triona Walsh for Short Storys, David Mohan for poetry. So Johnny's back in Lucan for another year!!
At this rate we'll need a new trophy cabinet in the library. Well done all of y'all!

Legs 11

"Ye only know about kicking turnips around the field" a man sitting behind me jibed at a neighbour before the game. I was at my first GAA match in a few years, with my husband's tribe, shouting for the wrong side. Luckily I didn't have to shout too much, because the poor Roslander's didn't seem to have the ball all that often, looking like a pack of panicking ostriches whenever the ball did land somewhere near them. The one entertainment was Rossie no. 11. Despite the 1 point to 3 goals 11 at half time, he came out bravely after the break, still with his strangely lovely legs shown to their fullest advantage with socks pulled down as far as they'd go. It was kind of fascinating, I don't know whether it was that his shorts were too small, but his legs seemed to go on forever and his were definitely the best two stripes of well tanned (though admittedly slow moving) flesh on the field, kind of hypnotic. Luckily I saved the day by shouting "last score wins" just as Roscommon got the last point of the game, they lost 3 goals 18, to 7 points, but I think the moral victory was theirs.

I mightn't turn into a full time GAA fan after all.

An Inaccurate Prediction

15 years and 5 days ago, when I was 15 and 5 days of age, I made an inaccurate prediction which I only remember now, because I wrote it down in my diary.

I was at a fluffy stage in my life, when I believed in predictions/ magic/ mysticism or whatever you want to call it. I'd be in the shower and I'd say "Oh my god this time tomorrow something life changing is going to happen," lo and behold the next day at that time I'd have completely forgotten about it. Anyway - this particular day I looked at my watch, sat down on the bed in my room, and said to myself: "I am exactly half way through my life"

I wrote it down because I thought it would be good to remember it, to see if I was right, worked out the time and everything - 19th June 09 at 10.45 pm my life was to come to an end. That prediction was inaccurate, even though it's not 10.45 yet I know it's wrong because I got the day wrong - thought it was going to be a Saturday, (and of course because I haven't yet won the booker or hosted the late late).

However stupid predictions do sometimes have their uses, and any time I've been scared for the latter half of my life I've been able to recall it and think "no, I'm not going to die now, I'll be fine" - I could do a whole nuther post on the times I've had to use that calming technique. So, what to do now? Face a life of uncertainty and indeterminate length? I don't think so, instead I'm assuming that I got the fraction wrong somehow - (even though I was always vert good at maths, it's a possibility), so maybe I was only a quarter of the way through. Therefore I can live a completely fear free life for the next 30 years and 10 days, tune back in 2039, June 29th to find out how it goes!

Needless to say I am doing nothing exciting or life threatening tonight!!

Any stupid predictions made by anyone else out there??... particularly any useful ones?

Significant developments at the Slippiest Pole

Here at Various Cushions we don't shy away from bringing you certain news, just because it might be unpopular, deemed unworth commenting on, or insignificant. No, we will not just forget about the situation at the slippiest pole in Dubland - just because those in power might wish it.

So here it is, the very latest, keeping you up to speed. As you can see from the above, things have changed utterly since the last update. The hedge has been shredded, leaving relieved pedestrians free to walk in the sunshine, no danger of verge dwelling lions, last feared here on June 4th. However, as seen in the below - all is not well that ends well. The warning sign - which says "Caution Slippery" for those too lazy to read back, is still there, but is almost completely snapped in half, perhaps by the deranged lawnmower handler who obviously went spontaneously insane when faced with this particularly slippy area. The authorities are doing their best. More news anon.

Things that seem funny when you're a little bit too tired

1. Typing "Google Anal" into the toolbar when you want to look at google analytics.

2. Mixing up signposts in your own head for the craic; eg there's two signposts at work, one says "Place all rubbish in the bin" the other says "Now wash your hands" I wish one of them said "Now wash all your hands" - as if sometimes you'd only wash some of them.

3. Mixing up signposts outside your head for the craic; eg in the botanical gardens - actually no - that's always funny, only when misinforming people of latin names for plants though - not when the signs are actually important to someone - ie a signpost for cork or something.

Last Night

First of all - I said the poem on the phone to my Mam, the one I'd learned off for the occasion, she said it was "Genius, Brilliant, etc etc" sometimes they say the right things. Then spoke to a very distinguished poet friend whose advice was to pretend any 15 minute pauses were avant garde, and call them all losers if they didn't get it.

Myself, himself, Oub, MB, and co were safely ensconced in front of the "stage" well before the show kicked off.

Host Stephen James Smith started things off with his version of 1913, and put every one at ease with his laid back friendly hosting style, a true gent.

I was psychotically repeating the poem to myself again and again for most of the next two hours, but was shaken out of the nerves by alot of the acts that were on before me, alot of them were so great they distracted me right away from thoughts of the utter humiliation that lay ahead when I'd go up and mumble something incoherent and be booed off. There was a guy from the Netherlands who shocked us all with his "I can't believe it's not Luke Kelly" but better than the usual "I can't believe it's not Luke Kelly" voice. There was the hilarious Aiden O Reilly, a great young comic, genuinely clever, a joy to watch. There were several other brilliant music acts, an outstanding guy from Longford, a guy with floppy hair who has an anonymous mandolin playing friend, a brilliant fella with a Cohenesque song about "Forests of song". (I know this is a really helpful review for anyone who wants to go and see these people, sorry I'm just crap with names - if anyone reading this knows their names pls comment below)

There were other poets, SJS - the maestro treated us to a lovely one about a sunset, and a delightful tale about where he was when he wrote it. Matt Bolton, a fellow Lucanite writer went on, 2nd last before me. That's when things got a bit sticky. He told me it was only his second time reading, so of course I was hoping he'd utterly mess up, say things wrong and run off crying. Unfortunately he did a great reading, and I know size doesn't matter but his poems are so much longer than mine! He had some real beauts and even made some off the cuff comments. The fecker. So there I was, really under pressure, at least he hadn't learned any of his off, ha - brevity pays off at last.

I eventually got called up, and said my poem. The poem that the goldfish nearly know off by heart at this stage, because I'd been trying so desperately hard to make sure I wouldn't forget it.

Here tis by the way - by popular demand (thanks Oub!) - written during my angst ridden computerless evening last week.

Techno Tribes

Children scream,

Their only mode

of being seen

Adults Shout

Along the road

M50 rage. All Out.

Don't you touch my van.

Don't you "Don't" me man.

All anger full.

Bile rich, nice poor.

Kicking heels, licking windows, not answering the door -

Our friends are on facebook, on myspace, on twitter.

Strangers stay strangers. And we'll never get fitter

squandering lives on bebos blogs and so on -

By the way, mine's variouscushions.blogspot.com

I forgot -

I forgot how to meet real people years back.

Defence being the best form of attack,

I'll defriend you if you call be a hack,

All while ignoring the complete, utter, lack,

of any real life

in my life.

- so that was it, went down well, people listened, (a very nice lady with impeccable taste even told me afterwards that she thought it was great) laughed at the right place(s) and I somehow remembered every line without stammering or stuttering at all. Then I took out me little red note book and read another, only had the one more ready to hand, so that's all I did, but I tell ya it was the easiest poem I ever read out - after the stress of the first one, and again got a warm response.

Lovely place - downstairs in the International Bar on Monday nights, check it out, google Stephen James Smith and book a spot to read/ play right now, you won't regret it. See you there.

Takin my own advice

"You should take whatever opportunities come your way to do what scares you," I remember saying something along those idiotic lines there not so long ago... Well tonight I'm doing a reading, and gonna try and do my latest poem without the words in front of me. I have several people to thank for leading me towards this fad.
I'm just wondering would it be worse to do a terrified shaking nervous delivery with only half the words right, or should I get roaring drunk and give an extremely confident performance with probably less than 10% of the words correct? and anyway who'll know the difference... I will - that's the pain of it. Twould be only myself I'd be fooling - but I wouldn't mind being fooled - especially by myself - sure I'd hardly take offence at all...
BUTTERFLIES . .. . ... .

On Meeting a Sound Poet

So we went to see Christian Bok at the Tulip Fest, google him if you care. But he was advertised as a sound poet, in that he’s paid to write funny noises down on paper and then say them out loud. I have to admit it was different, it was freaky, at some stages of the show all I could see in the world was his huge lips and teeth as he made the strangest noises, loudly and with definite purpose. At first I assumed he had a deeper worked out meaning to it all.
I bought his book, Eunoia. 5 chapters of verse. Each with only one vowel in it. It took 7 years to write, it’s fun to read, conforming to the rules forces him to put together some unique phrases and ideas, which made it kinda worth while. HOWEVER – his new idea is stupid. Well the way he’s goin about it is kind of stupid. Well maybe just his answer to my stupid question was stupid. But here it is anyway. He’s goin to write a poem and insert it into the DNA of a bacterium, and it would be written so that the protein’s code would also be a poem. (I’m presuming the first poem will use CATG only, and the second would be spelled out with first letters of the amino acids), anyway – yadda yadda inserted in a bacterium so it will survive forever etc etc, and here’s why I don’t think he’s sound, and also why he came across more as a batman baddie by the end of the show: I asked him what the protein would do, that he was writing into the little animal, presuming that he would have some really poignant or clever or beautiful idea about it. Don’t ask me what. I just trusted that he would have thought of something brilliant. Guess what? He hadn’t. The answer was simply – “Ah Science is the easy bit, so eh – doesn’t matter what it does. I think we’ve time for one more question”
Anyway – I realised as we walked home that the reason I was so depressed was the total and utter absence of any true feeling in his work, the cleverness and high falutin-ness of it, without a pick of anything that matters.

The one thing that we enjoyed most about the whole thing was our chat in the queue on the way in (by the way nothing starts on time in Canada – and no one minds, except if the person putting on the show is loitering in the audience drunk for the first three quarters of an hour – but that was a different show).
We met nice language enthusiasts – a translating lecturer woman, and an earnest man with bored teenager & wife in tow. They told us about this Oulypo movement in France. A new one on me. It’s this crowd that used to hang around making up writing rules for each other, and playing games with it. Apparently, one of them wrote a novel without the letter E, in French. And got it successfully translated into English without the letter E either.
Some of the games they used to play are below.
Anyway – we had a fun conversation about trying to spend a year without consuming anything with the letter E in the name of it. You couldn’t have water, but you could have milk, no beer but vodka would be fine, etc etc. See if you can spend the next day without eating anything with the letter E – no tea, coffee, bread, cheese, only a potato, or a tomato – no plurals of those things. Let me know how it works out for ya...