Archive Page 2

08
May
09

All the words you think are old and all the words you speak, you stole

Writing about writing is dangerous business and usually to be avoided. I avoid it when others start jabbering on about their process and how you should write. Nonsense, all of it. Unless, of course, you’re my hero. In which case, i’ll carve the words into my eyelids just so i don’t lose them. Anyway, this is about a movement.

I’m going to work from the ground up.

A story. It starts with a sentence. A sentence needs words to be a sentence. More specifically, a subject and a verb, maybe toss in a few articles, a preposition or three, maybe an object, and, if you’re feeling dangerous, throw a conjunction in there and watch it all slosh around until you throw down a period like so. So, yeah, a sentence. You need those. But what if you don’t want those? Well, then don’t write seems to be the common sense answer. However, we don’t need a sentence to be a sentence. We don’t need a subject or a verb. We don’t need a complete clause. This is nothing new. Fragments, we accept them as usable.

A scene in a film is usually comprised of several cuts. A cut is like a period. So, let’s say you’re making an fight scene and you have thirty cuts in thirty seconds. Those one second flashes are sentences, sometimes fragmentary, but they do the legwork. They progress a story. Now, sometimes you eliminate the cut like in The Russian Ark, which is a beautiful film made up of a single 90 minute uninterrupted take. The longer you go without a cut, the more complex and laberynthine the sentence becomes. Then you have the sentence equivalent in Grossman’s beast, which is about as perfect as writing gets. The represent a story told in one sentence. A novel length story. So we’ve two extremes here: sentences that aren’t sentences and sentences that are entire stories.

We want both. Or i want, rather. I want to write the longest sentence ever written and i want to write stories without sentences.

A plot, you need a plot. But that’s not true. Joyce taught us that lesson. But still, something must happen. What if nothing does? Is it not a story anymore? How much of life involves nothing? The days we spend just lying down staring at ceilings.

Characters, yeah, those are important. But they’re not necessary. A story without a subject, though, sounds, well, empty. It is. It’s very empty. Like the hull of a ship or a gutted cathedral. I want to tell that story. Characterless, humanless: it’s not a void, it’s a door. Or we can keep the characters, but watch them from a distance. Observe them, but never make contact. Then again, we can jump right in, jump straight into the meat of them and inhabit in a world existing only between the walls of their head.

Write using the five senses, they say. But what if i want none of them? Or maybe i’ll just pick a few of them.

Grammar, too, we needn’t bother.

Now, i mean, the postmodernists have done these things, i think. I’ve not read them, so i guess they don’t matter to me. Mostly, i want to just do a lot of things quite differently.

I always liked writing sentences like they were poems. Brandish the flourish like fencers. I wanted to be Will Christopher Baer, writing those sentences that sing with such elegance you nearly cry. But i feel like i’m cheating when i do that. Not to say any sentence i’ve written is that exceptional, but i think i do hit a few out of the park every once and a while. But, yeah, i’m done with those. I can’t do them anymore. It’s hollow to me and i get no enjoyment from it. I move towards a simplification. Simplify everything. That’s not to say Minimalism, which i’ve grown to dislike as well over the years. But i’m gutting stories, taking out half the meat and leaving a third of the bones. Rip down the setting, kick out the characters, and watch as nothing happens. Too, i will never write in first person again. Or, well, i probably will, but not for a long while, i imagine. I don’t like doing it anymore. Pull back to the narrator, the observer. When i’m in a character’s head, i get carried away with the sentences.

So what do i want to do? It’s hard to say, really. I’m kind of drawing on a lot of my influences and trying to tie them all together. Not just literary influences, but everything. Surrealism/magic realism, absurdism, existentialism, Taoism, Dada, film [Akira Kurosawa, Terrence Malick, and on and on], music [Tom Waits, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, and on and on and on], visual art [Dali, which, i guess is just grouped in with surrealism], mythology, religion, transcendetalism, Theatre of Cruelty, Theatre of the Absurd, the wind blowing, the sound a rock makes when you throw it at a car, everything. I want to pull it all together. Too, i want to disorient the reader, pull them in ten directions at once and leave them curled up tearing out their hair trying to figure out which way up is. I want my stories to feel like those perfect scenes you see in films made by dead russians.

It’s about silence and stillness. Silence especially. How does one write silence, though? A good question. A very good one. But it’s what i want to write, what i’ve always been interested in. Stretch the limits of language, make it all something new. Form a new language. Words are just symbols and we can attach meaning of our choosing. Words are sounds too, though, and it’s important to keep that in mind.

Logic needn’t apply either. Life is a dream and the rules only apply because everyone can’t stop agreeing on the terms. Reality is maleable. It bends and shifts and turns and twists and sloshes over into the parts we tell ourselves aren’t real while the imaginary keep bubbling up from underneath and infiltrating what we once thought was real but now looks displaced.

So, where do we go and how do we get there? This is a process, possibly a very long process and i’ve really no idea where it’ll go. It’s so inarticulate at this point.

And most of it’s about theatre. Or the nature of theatre, rather. I’m going to write a play and hopefully direct it. I’m drawing on the Theatre of Cruelty, Living Theatre, and the Theatre of the Absurd for these ideas as well as the very strange experience i had at a play in high school. My mind was discombobulated and all these ideas about the boundary between spectacle and audience became to rigid for me. I want the audience to be an active participant in the show. I want the audience to have a visceral experience, one they’ll never forget. Bring a show to them and bring them into a show. Get everyone in the theatre jostling together.

Film, too. I’ve ideas there, but that’s later. Same with music. For now, i’m sticking with theatre and short stories and novellas. Maybe a novel will sprout up, but probably not for a few years.

It’s about reality and what it means to be alive in the world. Identity, even. Deindividuation and technology frightens me. Dehumanisation and the unreality of life boggles my fried mind. Because none of this is real. Memories are pure fabrications, imaginary, and wholly fictitious. Why is that important? Because memory informs who we are, every aspect of our identity. Which, oddly, in turn, effects our memories or how we remember our memories. Too, the way we remember our memories informs our present, which shapes our future. The past is everything, but it’s all imaginary. None of it is real. Or, rather, everything is real, which amounts to the same thing. Your dreams and hallucinations are just as real as the life you live, as the present tense of your actions. Which brings us to identity, i think. Identity, too, is imaginary. Or, rather, it’s never fixed. You are never the same person. Our identities are contextual and dynamic. Our identity even shapes our brain. Literally, the neurophysiology changes because of who you decide to be when you decide to be you, whichever version of you that may be.

But do those things matter? Certainly not. Then what’s the point?

Do we need one?

And we don’t. It’s enough to run down the halls naked banging a frying pan with a ladle shouting the Apostle’s Creed.

What am i trying to say here?

Does that question matter? Is it not enough that you’re reading?

And you see, i’m getting all lost and caught up here. What i mean to say is that we needn’t have a reason. For anything. There’s no answer because there are only questions.

But, anyway, back to it. There’s so very much i want to do and it’ll take me a long time to do it, but i’ve already started. Just experimenting with form and grammar. It’s a process, and it might be years before i finally get it right.

And that’s probably semi-good enough for now. A bit less than coherent and a bit more than nothing.

There will be more about this at a later date.

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07
May
09

In the house in a Heartbeat

Someone’s in my apartment.

I know it.

My roommates left today. Left a mess behind, too. Anyway, i’m afraid of everything and there’s someone here, listening to the clicking of this keyboard just on the otherside of that door over there which looks more and more suspicious with every passing minute. And there, a noise, a door closing, one of my doors, and rustling of–i don’t know–lives colliding.

I’ll try to focus. I said i’d be more frequent. Apparently i lied. I’ve been meaning to write this huge manifesto on here of the art movement i’m architecting. I’m surprised that’s a word. Architecting. Sounds imaginary, more so than the rest of these symbols. Where was i? I may be losing it a bit lately. Life’s kind of unhinging itself in weird ways. Trouble’s following me and all of my friends. Too, the end to my imaginary life is almost done. But, wait, i was on the movement. I might get it up here sometime tonight or tomorrow morning or when i return from Austria.

Trinity Ball’s tomorrow. Should be quite a time. No idea what kind of time, but things are sure to be a bit crazy. After that, back to Barcelona, then to Munich and Ludwig’s castle, finally to Salzburg. My dad’s quite excited about it. Vicarious living.

What’ve i been doing lately? Too much drinking, mostly. I need to do less of that. Oh, i went back to Northern Ireland last weekend for the third time. Belfast is such a stupid city and i really don’t like it, but Giant’s Causeway is one of the coolest places on earth. Truly. Too, if i didn’t go up there, i would’ve spent the weekend in Dublin by myself. No fun, that. But, yeah, just been going wild as we tend to do.

Been doing a lot of thinking lately. My head’s in a weird place and kind of spiralling all over. I’m realising again that my memories are all barely valid and always falling apart. It’s nice to have a photographer, though. I have one, we all have one here. It’s nice. I can trace my weeks by the pictorial evidence left on facebook. My memories are all written on raindrops and sand, but these, these are real. I was at these places. I’ve seen them, touched them, smelled them. I’m alive.

Getting a bit weird here. All stream of consciousness and out of order. My head needs an editor.

Been writing again. Two shorts in the last week. They’re very short, hovering around 500 words, which is so much shorter than i thought i could ever tell a story. If you’re a regular to my site here, you’ve surely noticed my rambling incoherency. Strange that i should fancy myself a writer. These new stories, they’re not like the ones i used to write. I never want to write the way i used to. Also, i probably won’t be sending any of the new ones out for publication. Not that they’re bad, i just hate trying to get published. Writing e-mails, looking for magazines, so tiresome. Also, these stories need to be right. Correct. They need to be part of the aesthetic i’m trying to make. It’s a bit like grappling in the dark searching for a yellow feather in a room full of crows. Enough though, i’ll put up the whole atmosphere of my ideas eventually. It’s sure to be a gargantuan post and highly nonsensical and incoherent and structureless, which is actually the best way for it to be given the nature of the ideas.

Where were we?

They’re here. Who they are and what they want, i’ll never know, but they’re inside my apartment. Not ninjas because i never would’ve heard it. Ghosts maybe. Monsters–i certainly hope not–i’d probably already be dead if it was a monster. Ghosts seems most likely. Unless, of course, we’re being rationale and it’s a human or–and what a thought!–nothing at all.

I’m getting all wired and wound and lost here.

The words scraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaamble on. Next time, which will either be very very soon, like in a couple of hours, or quite long from now. Leaving Saturday and arriving back the following Saturday.

29
Apr
09

Fingertips to the Star

Some things go very right in my life.

Other things go very wrong.

The days treat me well in Dublin. The weather looks like it’s turning around. I bought some new shoes today. They’re loud, loudest shoes i’ve ever worn, anyway. I’m finally almost done with my year long project, just need to present Thursday morning after which i’ll do that toss your cowboy hat in the air and shoot the six shooters to the sky whilst pounding feet in delightful steps with yowls of glee tearing through the airwaves. Then, the weekend and it sounds like many things are being planned. Next week is Trinity Ball, then back to Barcelona, followed by a journey from Frankfurt to Salzburg. Of course, fun stops there: exam time.

Some things fall apart, though, and thousands of miles make the threads hard to weave back. Little else to do but watch as they unravel and the rope you were holding for so long turns into a single thread barely staying together against the wind.

Love that song, there. Been getting back into good man Oberst over the last week. Trevor’s doing, no doubt. I thought i had everything Conor Oberst put on tape, but i somehow missed this song. Very glad it’s come to my attention. I think i might write a poem for ye here. On the fly, of course, because it seems to be the only way i can write them anymore. Makes them fun for me. Hopefully for you, too.

‘Take a breath and close your eyes,’
she listened to my heart beneath October skies.
The scent of her hair filled the air
and i kissed her head to show i still care.

‘It’s never right,’ last night she cried;
the crack of her voice, and parts of me died.
Shaking from tears, choking down broken words,
my hand on her back, each finger like swords,
she shuddered and crumbled back,
a metaphorical heart attack.

We lie now together only to once more lie
to each other with sweet yet shallow speech.
We drift beyond our fingertip reach
until the sight of you becomes a blight.

She screamed and watched the world,
so fragile and cold, melt till it swirled
into a home unwanted, forlorn and forgotten,
where no love could ever be begotten.
I reached to her, to stroke her face,
she fought and she ran leaving me in disgrace.

‘What did you see behind your eyelids?’
I opened them to her smiling like shy kids.
‘I saw a star falling down, far through the ground.
Reminded me of love.’ And she makes not a sound.

‘Do you love me?’ her tears fell for hours
and i knew no words, just lies to rain like showers
upon her, to protect one or the other.
‘”Love cannot be told,” always said my mother.’
Her face fell apart in sobs like ashen leaves.
I held her then, but she never believes.

Her silence permeates and suffocates the air
because she knows we never meant to care.
Her body frozen and unreachable, distant and gone
from me, i reach but it’s been too long.

I sing to her a song
but it’ll always be wrong.
We’re out of tune
and she’s gone too soon.

26
Apr
09

Dancing on winding paths

I seem to be getting bad at this again. Keeping up, i mean. I’ll catch all ye up on my life and will try to be more frequent again. Anyway, lots to report, i suppose.

Dewey left last Friday [it has been a long time]. Well, he arrived back Thursday night and then left again Friday morning to head back to amerika. We had a good time and i know he enjoyed himself, possibly too much.

Later that day, Laura arrived in Dublin with two of her friends. They both go to St Thomas, apparently. Laura met them in Madrid, though, and i met them in Dublin. Funny how you can travel thousands of miles to meet someone who lives next door. Anyway, i met up with them, we bought wine, the Dublin peeps came over, and we got wild. It’s how life works here.

The next day, we went to Killiney and Dalkey, beautiful places, to be sure. I’ll grab some photos from facebook. None of mine are uploaded, so i’m stealing them from others.

An adorable photo of Laura there.

We found ice cream, too.

It was a good day in a pretty place.

We went back into Dublin, Laura and her friends went to a pub crawl, me and my friends got wild. It’s what we do.

The next day, everyone left, Laura and her friends for Madrid, most of my friends for Edinburgh. Sarah and i planned a trip to Germany and Austria. It’s going to be a great time, methinks. It’s not for a few weeks yet, though.

The next day, Sarah and i went to Bray where we walked to Greystone. We walked through the mountains next to the sea. It was weird, though, because it ended up not in the mountains, but in plains with sheep. Very strange. Then, we ended up in the suburbs, where we got lost for about an hour until we finally found our way into town. So very strange, but it began as a beautiful walk. Pictures.

Then we stumbled across air fences.

The ground beneath them appears to have fallen, but the fence remains. They don’t believe in repair here.

It all comes back to ice cream, really.

But, yeah, we went back home to Dublin and did not very much. I spent the rest of the week doing various things. Watched There Will be Blood for the first time since seeing it in theatres. So good, that. Love just about every minute of it.

Wednesday, Sarah had her second comedy show, which was a great time. She opened but was actually the funniest act, i thought. The headliner sucked really bad, truth be told.

But, yeah, the days have been going as they tend to. I’ve been a bit sick this weekend, so i’ve spent a lot of time inside. Oh, got the new Decemberists album, The Hazards of Love. Brilliant stuff there. Becky Stark’s on a lot of the tunes and i fell in love with her some months ago. But the album is like a play or a continuous story. Great stuff.

I caught Run Lola Run, too, the other day.

A german film. Super fast and high intensity. Tons of fun, that.

This morning, i watched possibly one of the greatest films ever made. It’s by Carl Dreyer, a silent film, called The Passion of Joan of Arc. Every minute of this film is beyond exceptional. The camera work is some of the best i’ve ever seen. The acting by the lead is incredible. So much of this film is tight close ups on her face, and it works. It all works, every frame. And this was made in 1928. It makes you wonder what happened to cinema, when did it get so diluted when they figured it all out way back then? It’s pure artistry. Also, the final scenes, the burning of Joan of Arc is one of the most visually striking things i’ve ever seen on film. I’m posting the first ten minutes in here. The whole thing appears to be available on youtube, so if you’ve about eighty minutes, i encourage you to check it out; It’s brilliant.

Yeah, check it out.

In other news, i feel quite well today. Also, i found out i got a story accepted into RedFez’ next issue. I’ll link it when it happens. I need to link another story, though i doubt you’ll buy the book. Yeah, it’s only available in that format and i fear no one in the world will buy it. Very unfortunate, that. Various reasons why, all of them beyond my control, but i probably won’t try publishing with those guys again. It’s a great collection of horror stories, too.

There was something else i meant to say here, but i can’t remember.

I’ll try to be more frequent.

15
Apr
09

We write to create the future, not to destroy the past

There have been exactly 942 visitors to this site at the moment i type this sentence. I’ve had this site for just over six months. I think that means i’m doing fairly well. It looks like i average probably five visitors a day, which, i think, means i get probably three readers every other day. Because, let’s face it, most people just click the link. i know i click links like it’s going out of style. Can’t help it, really. You link something, i’m there. But, yeah, i’d guess probably 300 of the visitors have read something here and i’d guess that those 300 visitors represent fifty people [generous number, there], some of whom’ve read one post and other, like Ian [you’re the man] who’ve read all or close to all. Yeah, that’s my calculations.

Been obsessed with that song for the last couple of days. I should do another video post of all the song’s i’ve been diggin on recently. Those are always fun, i think. Though, i mean, could just be me.

This post is mostly about how i spent this most recent Saturday. I stayed in bed all day and chronicled what went on outside my window and various other things. I wrote it, or typed, rather, it all down, so i’m just going to copy and past it.

Saturday the whatevereth of April

It’s three in the afternoon. I’m still in bed, have a headache, and an empty case of beer next to me, drank more than i meant to. Or should have, rather.

From my bed, the sky looks glorious and i wish i was spending my day outside. There’s nice weather in Dublin lately. The sky’s that beautiful blue, but not endless; the great puffclouds are trudging past, not ominously, but prettily. Like they know something i don’t, something wonderful that i’ve only hinted at in my years on earth.

There’s love to be made
or so she said
while holding my hand,
our feet in the sand.

We swoon when the water
hits our toes,
and so it goes:
we made a lovely daughter.

Anabelle Lee was the name intended,
though we changed it quick
less she grow to be offended
by the awful name we made to stick

upon her life for all her days.
Little Jessica was a delight,
all smiles and elegant ways.
Our daughter, a prize, a beauteous sight.

She did begin to grow.
A lovely life as a show
for us to watch and script
behind our coffees being sipped.

Age comes as it’s wont to do
and bid living farewell, my wife,
my love, my magnificent Jew,
was forced to leave behind this life.

Young Jessica cried and cried
but no tears came for me
just desire to travel and see
the world before i, too, died.

Packing our bags, we took to the road.
Just my Jessica and my fading life
off to nowhere, writing my ode
to a life led well, a story free of strife.

Just my Jessica and me
A daughter, a companion, see.
We travel on and on for days and years,
beyond my life, forever past, free from fears.

We drive on.

There’s a cat who lives in the courtyard, too. I call him Alexander because it’s a kingly name and he’s a beautiful specimen. Though, it’s possible he is a she, in which case i’ll call her Alexandra. He wanders the courtyard, prowling, rather, in search of something, a bird or a small child to fiend on. Cat’s know things. This, i know.

Last night was a good night, mind. Got together with my friends, some of whom i’d not seen since France. We got a bit wild, as we tend to do. Watched The Life Aquatic and reminisced about Manifest Destiny and the Amsterdam/Parisian adventure.

Also, a girl with a pretty voice called me and i’m sure i made a bit of a fool of myself while talking to her. I’m a foolish person, though, so it’s to be expected. And she was kind enough to not make me feel stupid. Or maybe she was and i can’t remember.

Now Annabelle Lee was from Tennessee.
A feisty young lass with ten kinds of class,
she’d spit and she’d holler, she’d undo your collar.

Henry O’Toole was nobody’s fool,
but he came unawares, forgetting his cares,
to the spot on the dot where one could fit a cot.

Little fat Carol was known for his barrel.
He rolled it down hills where sometimes it kills.
A terror, he be, so beware when you see a fat boy from Tennessee.

Henry O’Toole, who was still nobody’s fool,
took the long road devoid of a magic fortune telling toad
to Tennessee to see the famous Annabelle Lee.

On his way, he met Little fat Carol and his deadly old barrel.
Fat Carol was sorrowful, his barrel, so powerful,
was beaten and damaged, a wreckage of woodage.

But Henry O’Toole pulled up a stool,
rolled up his sleeves, face in the breeze,
and commenced to mend the barrel of Carol.

Fat Carol was pleased, his barrel appeased,
He thanked Henry O’Toole, called him nobody’s fool,
and left merrily, to kill, verily.

Annabelle Lee danced on the stage of Tennessee,
for all life is one, or so they say, till it is done.
She danced and romanced, famous at last.

Henry O’Toole strolled in real cool looking nobody’s fool.
He searched for Annabelle Lee, for just a chance to see
her grace his face and the stage with her lace.

Annabelle Lee spotted Henry O’Toole sipping tea on a stool.
A handsome young man, a little bit tan; the ladies, all fans.
She walked to a desired new lover and he damn near tipped over.

Henry O’Toole was wordless, but far from worthless.
He swooped her off her feet, showed he was the man she needed to meet,
‘Annabelle Lee, you’re gonna see, that you’re the only woman for me!’ said he.

It’s near five in the afternoon now. Alexander’s back, just lounging in the sun–a rarity here–and licking himself. The sun’s been staying out later and later these days. Just a few months ago, it’d already be dark at this time. The sky’s opened up a bit, too, and i smell delicious food coming from somewhere.
I’m really hungry and still haven’t left my room. Afraid to see my roommates, i think. Who knows what they thought i was doing last night, talking to one amerikan girl, and then another amerikan girl i’ve not seen in years.

I don’t much recall what we talked about, but i remember laughing a lot and enjoying myself. I’m sure i was quite comical.

In probably four hours, i’ll be out making a fool of myself again.

Young Tomas was always cross.
He cursed and he cussed;
he made a big fuss,
so his mother did say,
in that way that they do,
‘Tomas, my dear,
you really must behave
or the world’ll think ye
a knave.’
Tomas, so cross, tossed
himself outside,
far from foul felt-tip admonishes.
He kicked and he shuffled,
his boots filled with rubble.
He hollered and hooted,
shouted and tooted.
Billy boy heard all the ruckus
and followed the rumpus
to where Tomas,
so cross,
was resting.
‘Tomas,’ he did say
in that boyish of ways,
‘your Mother says you’re a mess,
that you lashed out
and looted.’
‘What of it?’ seethed Tomas.
‘Well,’ Billy stammered,
‘You musn’t be so reprehensible,
it’s far from civil
and not one bit
jovial.’
‘Ah, your joviality
and civility
and respectability
can rot in a pot!’
Tomas did rage.
‘I’m tired of rules
and more so of fools!
The lot of ye
can rot!’
Billy boy left him,
for no fun’s to be had
with a boy
so far from glad.
But Tomas still fumed,
thought rebellions would swarm
from the ill thoughts
born.
Tomas did not see
that callous rage
birthed only
platitudinous,
ponderous,
woe-begotten
absurdity.
With Tomas as a guide,
a lonely
regretful
life ye’ll lead.
So cheer up
and smile more
because Tomas,
poor Tomas so cross,
is not you.

It’s 630pm now.I’m kind of drifting in and out of it. Still sitting in bed, looking out the window. I was listening to the score to The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford by Nick Cave and Warren Ellis–a fantastic album, no doubt–and this song came on:

while i was watching the clouds float by.
I got one of those feelings that i get every now and then. Something deep inside, where the whole earth kind of fills me and the grandness, the magnificence of existence sort of overflows and the world shimmers. Everything becomes so still, so, i don’t know, epic and important. And the clouds, they know me, or know i’m here, not sure it matters. They know i’m watching, anyway. And the dance by, so elegantly, so perfectly, just like these violin strings and the piano keys that tap in at 2:15 of that song. You hear it and something, not clicks, but sort of orients itself in just the right way. You know the day’s not wasted, though you’ve spent it in bed, because you’re here now, where you were meant to be, where all of this could happen, had to happen. And you–not sure why i’m in second person–smile. For no reason, just this sensation, this almost overwhelming fullness that comes when you’re living in those clouds, so beautiful and high above, watching down.

‘Come away with me into the night.
Give your hand, my dear,
we’ve miles to go before first light.’

She stretched forth her hand,
and in a sweep of black feathers,
she flew over grass, stone, and sand.

Closing her eyes and clutching tight,
she felt him, like raven feathers
brushing her cheek, and lost all her fright.

‘Be not afraid,’ his voice echoed in her head,
‘you’re safe here with me. Open your eyes.’
These words resonated, but were never said.

Hundreds of feet below shimmering with light,
the ground flew by in kaleidoscopic swirls
of greens, blues, reds, and purples wound tight.

She gasped and swallowed a scream,
clutching tighter to him,
though a bird he did seem.

And man he was not, but a creature of might,
existing between day and night,
balanced on gloam, near the death of light.

More feathers than skin, more demon than man,
he’s known as Orpheus, the Shadowking,
the keeper of the night and all that lives then.

Blacker than night, he swallowed the light,
ripping it from the surrounding,
making the world appear colorful and bright.

She clung close to him and wondered where he led.
‘To the birth of the day,’ he said,
though she never asked aloud, but only in her head.

And so they flew further into that dark night
leaving far behind all remnants of light
where the beauty of earth burned a bit more bright.

It’s now nearly one in the morning. The window stopped being interesting hours ago, but i’m still here.

Danny the Duck danced
to dangerous degrees of
dizzying drumtop drops.

Robert the Robin robbed
a Red Robin recently revealed
and revered as a regal restaurant.

Sam the Swan swam
stupendously in sweltering
serendipitous streams.

Bobby the Birdwatcher browsed
beaches and birches for birds
busting with brilliance.

I left my post for about an hour to return a movie and find out if my roommates were still alive. They are. I’ve still not brushed my teeth or anything. I ate a huge steak, though. It was bigger than my frying pan so i had to do it in waves. Who knows what happened outside my window whilst i was away. Alexander may’ve done some fiendish deeds. Too, before i left, i saw another cat, which makes me think Alexander has a girlfriend. Her name’s Ophelia. I might play with them tomorrow.

Lay down beside me, dear.
Yes, rest your head here.
A pillow out of my arm,
for you, pleasant and warm.

Lay down beside me, love.
Be careful, no need to shove.
Your kisses, so sweet,
a whispered heartbeat.

Soft midnight hair
spread everywhere,
looking so pretty
enough so to write this ditty.

Your eyes gleam with begs
when i reach between your legs.
A tongue like a wandering star,
we’ll take this so far.

This started so innocent,
but turned quite magnificent
with every touch of your lips
and the feeling of your hips.

No longer laying beside me,
but sitting on top where i see
the curve of your breast,
and adore all the rest.

Deeper inside her,
all flesh turns a blur.
Faster and faster, then slow,
i sense the curl of her toe.

Gasping and heaving,
our bodies interweaving.
You stay so still up above,
lay down beside me, my love.

It’s almost 6am.

And so the sun does rise
lighting up the open skies,
flooding through my closed eyes;
they open as night’s dream dies.

And so, too, i must rise,
brush the sleep from my tired eyes,
prepare for the day with grateful sighs,
and so i rise to enjoy these April skies.

The birds have been awake for a while. I hear them singing or tweeting or whatever it is they do with their time. The sky, it’s opened up again, cloudless, and it’s starting to brighten.

She came a long way,
or so they do say,
to lie in the grass
and itch her sweet ass.

A kitten came to greet her.
With shadowed fluffed fur
and cold nose kisses,
it pranced to the young missus.

Fingers rubbing behinds ears,
young missus forgot all her years
spent wandering earth for this patch
of grass with a kitten to scratch.

Clouds before her green eyes
masked the bluest of skies.
The grass, soft as a bed,
tickled the back of her head.

The kitten softly did purr,
rubbing its head into her.
A sandpaper wetness on her face,
the kitten meowed with such grace.

To forever lie there
was a dream she could wear
as long as the sun shone.
‘Forever,’ she did moan.

A beautiful companion,
and not just anyone,
but a beautiful kitten.
Young missus, so smitten.

And there she did lie
beneath a glorious sky
with the feline so dear
forever, and one more year.

So, yeah, i spent about twenty four hours in bed. So close to a wasted day, but quite all right with me. I wrote a lot of poems, silly rhymes, for my own amusement. Thought i’d share them with ye, see if you get a bit of enjoyment from some scribblings.

The work for the semester’s nearly all done. Laura’s coming to visit for the weekend. I’ll tell you about it next week. My sleep schedule is so backwards and cockeyed that it’s a bit ridiculous, but i decided to stay up to get it back on track. About to go to sleep, truth be told. But, yeah, yesterday i went to bed at 11am, woke up at 5pm, and haven’t slept since then. It’s about 130am now. Too long to go without sleep.

I’ll get to all that stuff i brought up in the post below this one eventually. Patience, my dears.

Good night.

10
Apr
09

Our songs will all be silenced, but what of it?

Go on singing.

Orson Welles, there. From what, i can’t recall of the top of my head, but it’s a great line to mine ears.

Nothing to report, really. Since Dewey left, i’ve had essays to write, which i’ve not done. Well, got one done, and one’s in that grey area between started and finished. I’m gonna turn it in tomorrow and accept the lateness of it. What’s the worst that could happen? I mean, my grades are already ruined here, what’s a few more points? But, yeay, did that thing where i feel guilty about not finishing my work so i sit in my room with the door closed for days. Being holed up sucks and makes me all kinds of restless. Team Zissou tonight, excited for that.

Yeah, nothing to report. After, say, Wednesday, though, i’ll be done until May 18th, which is pretty boss. It’ll be nice to go back to a real life. Though, i’ve only about two more months in europe, which is a strange and somewhat frightening thought. I’ve not the patience to explain why at the moment as it’ll end up being an epic post in the near future.

Got my brain working on some stuff of the literary type. Though, because of the essay guilt, i’ve kept it in my noode, but i’ll let you in on this theory and movement in the works. Not now, but soon.Too, got rejected from all of those summer research positions, so i’m in the works of finding an alternative. May have already done so, but i’ll let you know about that later, too.

Can i be more vague?

Yes.

Um, nothing else, i guess. Just felt like getting some words out here.

I’ll make a real post when all this work’s finished and i can get some time to process the world outside of my room.

06
Apr
09

Dewey and Barcelona

Dewey arrived in Dublin a few days ago and we spent two days here causing ruckuses and mayhem all over the place, especially on your face. First thing we did was take a nap, though. We woke up in the evening and got dinner, then bought booze and headed out to Dundrum to hang with the folk. It was a good night full of nonsense, as most tend to be.

The next day we went to the Boat That Rocked.

It was hilarious and awesome with a great soundtrack. Just fantastic. After that me and Dewey did some more bumbling around and he cooked stirfry, which was great. For that night we hung around city center and got kicked out of the Pav, and then commenced to get real wild, and then weren’t allowed into Doyle’s. We went to McDonald’s and caused a ruckus and then went home and broke my brain.

We wake up the next morning to go to Barcelona. We pack and head out. We make it to the airport without a hitch and the flight goes smoothly. I had been in a terrible state of hungover up till this point, but the two hours of sleep on the plane did me well. Somehow i managed sleep, though, through the nonstop screaming and crying of children.

We discover once at the airport that we need to take a ninety minute busdrive to Barcelona, which is a bit of a bummer as it makes our time shorter than we thought. We arrive at our hostel after some confusion around seven. We get situated and wander about a bit and grab something to eat. After that, we decide to go to bed early and get an early start on the city.

We wake up the next morning around seven and wander just about everywhere. We hit the bay, a Gaudi building, La Rambla, the Columbus monument, and a few other places. Basically, we just wandered around and enjoyed the beauty of the city because it is quite breathtaking. My photos aren’t yet on my computer so you’ll have to wait for the facebook album, but trust me, it’s a glorious city.

About this time of the day, Dewey ends up getting his camera stolen. Two teenage kids jostle him a bit and then one disappeared witht he camera while the other one detained us with nonsense. It was terribly frustrating and Dewey had to buy a new camera as he’s on a three week vacation and it’d be nice to have the memories. We try to not worry about it, but it puts a bit of a damper on the trip.

Anyway, we head to the National Art Gallery, which is a supremely amazing structure. A giant pallace full of fine art and the like. Man, wish i had a picture to put up for you. After all those Parisian photos, it’s a bit lame to follow up with just words. But, yeah, spent some time there and saw everything, then headed back to city center and caught a glimpse of a few of Gaudi’s buildings. Really amazing structures. He was a brilliant architect. The Sagrada Familia especially was glorious. It’s a giant cathedral still under construction. Been under construction for almost 100 years. I think it’s probably the only church of it’s size still being built in the world. Don’t quote me on that, but i feel as if churches aren’t made like that anymore, scale-wise, anyway. But, yeah, it’s also an amazing looking structure, so detailed and refined and magnificent.

Then we ate some great spanish food and headed to the Barcelona version of the Arc de Triomfe. It was very cool, but nothing in comparison to Paris’. At this point, it’s near seven and we’ve been on our feet for about twelve hours, so we decide to head back to the hostel to rest a bit.

Unfortunately we didn’t make it back out of the hostel till the next morning. Fell asleep almost on arrival.

The next morning we make a dash to the bus because only one leaves in time for our flight. We make it, we make the flight, we’re back in Dublin. Oh, too, i forgot my toothbrush, so i went two days without brushing. Gross.

Back in Dublin, we meet up with Sarah and Trevor to go to Bray. It’s a beautiful beach south of Dublin. We climbed a mountain and snapped lots of photos. Well, i didn’t, forgot my camera again. but Sarah’s become my european documenter, so she has them all. It’s nice to have a photojournalist follow you about.

We end up cashing a liter of Johnny Walker between the four of us. We ate dinner there, too. Then we headed back, a bit drunk, and a lot happy.

We head back to my apartment where we continue the festivities and drink another liter of Johnny Walker and two bottles of wine between the four of us. Somehow Dewey ended up removing my mirror from the wall. I don’t understand it, but my bathroom’s now mirrorless.

Anyway, Dewey left this morning for a ten day tour of the island. Should be a great time and it was great to see a familiar face from home, if only for a few days.

Okay, lots of updates here, check out the next two posts if you’re just arriving. They detail Amsterdam, Paris, and St Patrick’s Day.

Back to real life where i’ve some serious work to do. I’ll get back to this probably after the sixteenth, when all my work for the year, outside of exams, will be done. Megan and Laura arrive that weekend, too, so there should be some things to tell.