Dancing with Diggers

Saw this guy in Montreal, on a very hot day, it was part of the dance festival that was going on there at the time. He moved rather stiffly, almost as mechanical looking as the digger, probably stiff from the previous day's show. The music was booming classical, a la the helicopter scene in "Apocolypse Now", not the same music, just the same general feel, rousing and loud.
After about a half a minute of watching, the man running after and away from, and jumping up to reach the bucket, diving into the scoop, Mr VC turned to me and said queitly "That is the stupidest thing I have ever seen." (and he's seen a lot of stupid things)
But we stayed watching, and in the end, the funny man who seemed to be in love with and afraid of this particular vehicle won us round, with his death defyingness in general I suppose, and the overall innovativeness of the act. What's the strangest act you've seen this summer?

Thoughts from the car park in green biro

Eyes only see half the picture, brain makes up the rest, that's why no one really knows what you see, we all assemble our own, lines and patterns, make assumptions, brain short cuts and says that's a chair, or that's a hairy monster there.
When I try to think about how I think, it's like typing Google into Google, or trying to paint your own hand or brush. It causes a shiver along the scalp, hairs bristle nervously.
New connections make us happy. The more creatively we think the less depressed we're likely to get.
Feelings occur everywhere around the body, in the hardened gut, the wobbly legs, the tapping restless hands, it's not all just heart or brain, it's every bit of us, an amazing machine, mostly water, and eventually one day we stop, and no one knows where we go.. but we've been replaced by ourselves I don't know how many times.
Our lasting memories are the amazing thing, every time a memory comes it's a photocopy - less accurate - you change it by remembering, that's why something hardly ever, or maybe even never, remembered when it comes back out is clear as day, sharp as sunshine compared to all the other sentimentalised smush we have in our heads...

If you only read one book for the rest of your life read "Proust was a neuroscientist" - it's the source of alot of the above thoughts, I'm reading it during the breaks in volunteering at the moment, and not even half way through. It's great.

Be Nice to Snails

Apparently there was a big storm in Dubland last night, no one told me tho, so I missed it... completely...
One of my fondest memories of a big storm is of my stupidence when I once cycled home in the middle of a big un in Maryland while out there on the J1, I just remember enjoying the view cycling past the graveyard, the lightening put on a little personalised horror film scene for my enjoyment. Found my buddy at the time hiding behind a bed in our rented room, askin me nervously to stand away from the windows. Only then I kind of remembered the bike was made of metal, and maybe a bit of caution would have been advisable, anyway...
I met two middle aged snails today at lunch time, they were heading towards my car, about to attempt to hotwire it I think, but I know they were merely high on the rain, the wetness of everything, the way they suddenly can skim across gravel, must be like finding out they can fly. I picked them up and put them safely back in the flowerbed.
It reminded me of the following very nice poem by Adrian Mitchell (from his "Tell me Lies" book {a gift from a friend of mine who NEVER reads this blog}, he's brilliant - if you don't know him, go out and buy it - lovely illustrations in it too) so I thought I'd share it, happy wet days everyone... and sorry if your house was flooded or you were one of those whose elective surgery was put off because of the hospital being drenched etc etc...

In the Suburbs

'Nobody can tell me what
they are meant to be for!'
Cried the suburban lady
As she poured a cardboard box full of garden snails
Into the dusty gutter.
Then she marched up and down the gutter
cracking their shells open with her heels,
Stamping the snails to death with her boots.

It was an ugly thing to do.

Nobody can tell me what
the suburban lady is meant to be for.

Adrian Mitchell

Monday - at the International

I did point out that there's something on every night of the week in Dubland this weather, to do with Culture, Vultures etc. It's my ambition some week to go to all of em, maybe... not this week tho. Think it'd have to be a week off from volunteering.

This Monday after a tough day's volunteering at the job (see my second last post), and a nice evening of watching young geniuses in Clondalkland bringing the past to life in preparation for heritage week, I was facing into an evening at home, alone... Awww. Himself having left me (hopefully temporarily) for the charms of Connemara,

I have been reverting to my singleton habits, (eating wise mainly), so following a packet of popcorn and a bottle of lucozade for my dinner, I wandered into town in search of adventure.....

Well in search of the open mic night at the International Bar. And I found it - there where I left it, (on that street near salamanca, I'm not good on details, so focussed on the big picture you see...)

I was sitting up at the bar, innocently minding my own business. Rhob Cunningham had wowed everyone with his amazing voice, and I was just thinkin what a brilliant lovely night it was where a girl could come along, even without her husband, and make new friends, and relax and then....

Stephen James Smith struck!! and asked me if i wanted to say a poem, later on like, if there was a gap... and I nodded calmly and smiled, and the butterflies went insane... It was only gonna be one poem tho, and I had a short one in mind, that'd be new to this crowd, that'd be perfect, so I said it to myself intermittantly between acts for the rest of the evening.

Some of the outstanding acts included Jay Fowler with a tiny guitar: out of which came some unbelieveably sweet music. Also the Longford guy - I have yet to talk to him and find out his name but I've seen him now a few times, and I love what he does. His songs are really real mostly, based in experience, and true feeling. He did a hilarious one about not really liking a girl which had everyone rolling around with the laughs. I will find out his name. Speakin of laughs, Neil Hickey was there again, a great young talent, explaining how old people try to extend their lives by spending more time in queues - because time passes slower there.

The poetry was brilliant too, and I don't mean me (obviously). But finally got to see Stephen James do the Tick Tock poem live (I won't tell you what his friends call it, but think cockney slang) - the first poem of his I ever saw on youtube - so that was cool. Brian Conaghan went on then and made us all uncomfortable, then unbearably sad, then mirthful, then thoughtful. He was great. His poem "Hands" was unforgetable...
(Here's a picture of some oily beach feet to mark the occasion, I ran out of hand related pictures last week... Feet are the thinking man's hands anyway - I'm typing all of this with my toes, while using my hands for an entirely other purpose, but that's another story)
I'd seen him before at the Shoestring - anyway - he had us all spellbound, and I was glad when he got the hell outta there before I got up, twas hard enough to be following him anyway.
I eventually did get up, and Stephen James Smith struck again, by askin me to do Techno Tribes (you'll see it two weeks ago in the posts here if you care). Anyway it wasn't what i was plannin, but I went along with it... it was ok, I guess. The whole gist of it, about havin no friends etc, did look really authentic when I went back to sit on my own at the bar...
I missed the last poet, because with my lack of a bodygaurd I felt it would be good to get out early to the carpark. I'm sure he was brilliant, (I mean the poet, not the missing bodygaurd) he had travelled from another county to get there, and his hair was very promising. (see you don't really come to this blog for information anyway though do you?)

Anyways - I'm on there proper next week, have my name down, and my friends are all coming, so you will in fact have great difficulty getting a seat if you decide to attend...

Oh - and there were lollipops! Which brings me on to this week's
WEEKLY COMPETITION: (she says, as if there's a competition every week).
Well Stephen James Smith announced there on Monday that he's thinking of renaming the night the Glór sessions. He wanted some feedback on that idea. Glór is Irish for voice, I've yet to hear anyone speak in Irish in there, but it is set in Ireland - the whole night - so... I don't know. I think Glór might be a bit offputting - might remind people of Gorey, or they might think it refers to Glory - there's a surprising amount of people among us who actually don't speak fluent irish, but I do like the idea of using irish - just maybe something more common. So that's the challenge to you - suggest a new title for the Open Mic at the International Bar and I will personally steal a lollipop at the next one, just for you. This competition is open to international entrants, as the lollipops are light enough to post. Closing date next Sunday night. The following suggestions will not be considered: Loony Luainí, Dán agus ceol dána or OMIB... There's no guarantee that the winning name will actually be used for anything ever, but the lollipop has to go somewhere....

Sunday at chapters in Parnell Street,

A reading organised by Seven Towers to celebrate Gay Pride

So, I like bookshops, and I like poetry readings, naturally I jumped at the chance to attend a poetry reading in a bookshop. (And yes - I bought a poetry book, but a poetry book doesn't count towards the dreaded stack of the still unread.) I went along mainly because I know Liam Aungier from my increasingly famous and talented writing group, and he was reading.

Raven kicked off proceedings. He'd arrived in fresh off the bike, complete with the helmet. A San Franciscan by birth, he's been in Dubland 8 years but hasn't really lost his home accent. His sheets were crumpled - he explained he'd normally know his stuff off - so his eyecontact wouldn't be as good as usual. The words were special though. I daren't try to quote them here, but there were definitely one or two spine tinglers among the images. Next up was Steven Conway, Phantom DJ, and one time pirate aboard Radio Caroline (otherwise known as "the boat that rocked" recently immortalised by Jack Black). He read a really moving piece from his book about the experience, got a really strong sense of the friendship and adventure on board, and the yearning we all have for some secret beautiful moment that we'll carry inside forever, feckin great. Then came the poet I'm proud to know - Liam Aungier. He read some really beautiful poems on the subjects of love and longing, I'm a big fan of his poems anyway, and really loved the chance to hear some new pieces (to me). He has kindly given me permission to let you all have a read of his poem "The Willow Tree" - see below, which has recently been chased for inclusion in a children's text book.

Next up was Oran Ryan with an excerpt from his book "10 short novels by Arthur Kruger" a really fascinating concept I thought, and the piece he read was great, a marvellous flight of fancy through death and out the other side, one I'm definitely getting once I've cleared the dreaded pile of the unread.

Finished off with Mike Igoe. I'd seen him once before at his open mic night in the Feile Bar. (But that night I'd had a couple of guinnesses in me, in an attempt to steel myself for the shaky reading I gave - my virginal open mic night), and I didn't quite fully appreciate him. The thing was, on Sunday in the queit book shop, he was able somehow to bring the same bold energy, and dramatic emotion forth. He's a performance poet - and what a performance. A great round off to a really interesting reading.
Raven runs Rá - a spoken word event in the cobblestone pub the last tuesday of every month - tonight is it's first birthday. Mike Igoe runs the naked lunch - open mic - music and poetry every second wednesday in the Féile bar. Seven Towers run open mic's in Cassidy's the last wednesday of the month - and a heap of other stuff besides.
There's no excuse not to get out and enjoy some of them, with Monday's covered by the International bar open mic, and weekends catered for by Nighthawks and Shoestring Collectives. Vibrant old scene it is...

And now - the poem... Liam Aungier's poem that you will some day hear a child say, or if you live for ages, you might hear an adult fondly quoting it, remembering back to a day in the classroom, yet to happen, where they were asked to say it off...And you can say you read it, before it ever got inked onto that dog-eared, graffitied text book.

Liam Aungier, ‘The Willow Tree’. From Apples in Winter, Doghouse books. P.64

The Willow Tree

Liam Aungier

staggered above me, shaking its many arms

at the laughing sky. Sometimes

its green cloak stole the sun, or

its winter branches clawed the stars

and trapped the half-moon in its web.

And then one day I came home

to find it gone: all its limbs

broken on the grass, gnarled roots

raised up to the air, and where

it had stood – the racing sky.

Advice

(for those who've had a 10% paycut)

1. Decimate your spending. This is what you'll have to do to survive. Instead of the 10 pints on a Saturday night, restrict yourself to 9. If you have 10 children, give one of them away; (note: be sure to choose whichever child costs the most average amount to feed and clothe - very high or very low maintenance children when given away may result in a skew on the figures). And ensure that any trip you take is 10% shorter, if necessary get off the bus 18 stops away from home if your workplace is at stop 20.
2. Decimate your work. When at work, once you have 9 tasks done, relax ... whatever you're asked to do next is actually unnecessary distraction, you are only being asked to do it as a joke. Smile, laugh politely - but do not do it.
3. Wear a volunteer t-shirt to work once every two weeks (assuming you work the normal 5 day week). On that day tell everyone you are volunteering today because you just love the company, care so much about the cause of doing stuff for whoever profits from your work. This will automatically lift your self esteem as you hang out with the other Volunteers, and say things like "Man, I love this! I'm so glad I volunteered!!! This is such a worthwhile thing to do." Then shake your head like a saint in a beatific rapture.

5. Remember 10% off isn't really that much, like you probably wouldn't buy something on special that only had 10% off, unless you wanted it anyway, (or, I guess, unless you were trying to decimate your spending) so that's alright really.

By the way - the above advice will work with any level of paycut - simply adjust the sums accordingly....

24 - 7

7 things from the last 24 hours - or you could do 24 things from the last 7 hours if you want - consider this an open invite

Here goes:

1. Cakes at writing group - celebrating successes, both of the Saggart Oscars, and one of us getting a poem into a kids text book (not me unfortunately)
2. Tasting Pear Cider at a brilliant party in Galway - why are Galway parties always brilliant?
3. Attempting to call DQ at 2.15 am - having just enough sense to give up after 3 rings and hoping she had the sense not to have the phone near her after my threat of yesterday.
4. Dropping himself back to paradise, aka the gaeltacht in connemara, where he'll be molding young minds in the irish ways for the next 3 weeks. Missing him already.
5. Listening to Lemon Jelly, as I bounced back down the windy road with Cattle gazing at the car from all angles, over and through the stone walls, and the glimmery and sparkly sea in front.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3-rxn6csDVM - do play it - it's worth it
6. Flashing my hazards to thank a bus for pulling in, only to realise it was a bus stop, I was thanking him for doing his job.
7. Going to see a poetry reading shortly, also heard of a 5 euro comedy gig tonight in Whelan's that I'm tempted by... but I'm shattered so.... we'll see.

So anyway, I've shown you mine...

Illustrated

Here's the illustration from 12 years ago in my diary that went with the original poem, which I began then and finished off this week and read today at "group".
Apologies again for the fuzziness. The poem is called "Ode to a Thumb Tack" but I cannot publish it here, for legal reasons, or because I don't want to. You decide.

Deep and meaningful talks with sales guys

Anyway, earlier this week, myself and a sales guy I work with were having a little road trip around the North West of Engerland.
We got to talking, as you do. He was telling me how he heard that a true friend was someone you could call up at 2am and they would talk to you.
I'm going to test that theory tonight. All those people on facebook and in my mobile, just to see how many "real" friends I have. If you'd like me to call you - and you know I don't have your number, but you know we are real friends nonetheless - feel free to leave your number in the comment box.
I'll know if the phone is turned off that you are truly a good friend, because it means you read my blog.
If you think you might be a friend of mine and I don't get round to calling you - please don't be too upset, it'll merely be a design fault with the mobile/ alphabetical order etc etc. Feel free to call me instead, to test it out - tho obviously my phone will probably be tied up with all the friends I'll be chatting to.
People in America stand a far greater chance of proving themselves true friends in this experiment. But it'll be more expensive talking to them, so I probably won't stay on long! Hmm - will report back tomorrow.

Slippy Pole - The Haunted Post

So today I took this photo:


It might be yesterday or the day before by the time you see this, but none the less, I did take it, fair and square. No photoshopping involved.

See it?
There!
The ghost beside the slippy pole, some part of it’s dim and distant history, perhaps a clue to the origin of its slippiness. Standing right next to it, some kind of a blur on the landscape, an ethereal wibbliness invisible to the naked eye, but picked up by my mega camera.

And anyone who says it’s just a bit of bird poo or hair oil smathered on my window is wrong wrong WRONG!!
You see, if I say it loud enough it’s true…