Tuesday, 21 June 2011

Measured Response

Well that's that then.

Measure for Measure is finished, and I loved every second of it. Yes, there were problems and exhaustion but I got to work with very cool people and louche around stage like a big louche, while wearing a waistcoat and spouting Shakespeare. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Theatre Company has had its first production, we had full houses five nights out of six, and the cast night was debauch-aplenty. I am pleased.

Also, waistcoats. Fucking waistcoats. I want loads of them, in a variety of styles and colours. More addictive then crack cocaine, those things.

And now I have time to myself! It's a revelation. I am going home to Cavan (where no-one can steal me away with fun things) and working on my submission for the Machine of Death competition, and some other random bits of things that I want to do. I've a plethora of new music (including new Battle Circus album, fuck yeah) to listen to, so hopefully the words will flow freely.

The next big scary thing I have mystifyingly got caught up in is a charity cycle to Electric Picnic. I'm not a particularly fit person, so the next couple of months are going to be consumed with me training. (and hopefully not dying) It's in aid of Temple Street Children's Hospital, and I will be organising events to raise my target of 500e. I'm actually looking forward to the hideous hardship that it will be. Because I'm a fucking eijit.

In between the cycles and the writing, I am going to be a huge nerd and start watching X-Files. I've been told it's... no, that's a lie. I haven't been told the X-Files is anything. It's just... the X-Files. A terribly fucking iconic show. And I will have far too much down time in between banging my head off a keyboard and screaming bloody murder at my weak and failing body, so I may as well investigate terrible 90's TV.

But I am rambling. And I want sleep. I will away.





Sunday, 12 June 2011

School's Out

Right, after this week I'm going on a holiday.

Not an actual holiday obviously, as I am horrifically broke. But a holiday from work, and writing, and trying to make myself a real person and so on and so forth. I am just going to wander around and have fun for a week. I shall ignore my responsibilities and go have coffee with interesting and pretty people, or read, or watch certain films so people will stop giving out to me for not seeing certain films.

Hell, I might go to the zoo. Madness.

I've been so busy the last few weeks that life has been a blur of work and rehearsals and occasional sleep and more work. This is neither cool nor healthy. I am going to find fun things to do around Dublin, and go do them, and possibly drag people along. If anyone wants to lend me a book that they think I should really be reading/have read, please do and I will repay you with tea. 

Myself and a friend once planned over rum to make up bucket lists and see what we came up with, and eventually some day I will, but at the minute I'm more concerned with the list in my head that I want to get done now. 

I want to be better at internet
It is a huge big world that lives inside my shoddy, keys-missing, wobbly-screen laptop, all full of cool bloggers and tweeters and inspirations, and I don't have the fucking time to get through all of it. And I want to. I want to exploit it, and get the webcomic I've been planning for three years out there, and have fun pictures on twitpic, and have friends I don't know but think are brilliant. 

I want to rearrange my writing
I write when I can, but too often I find myself writing just for an idea, and not forcing myself to write every day. And it irritates the shit out of me. I get wrapped up in submission dates, and don't just write, and see where and how things go. 

I want to plot evil with more people
Once this play is over, I want to get out and perform more, and maybe start adapting my own stuff for performance. I like the stories I tell now, but I want to do more than just make people laugh at the awkward shenanigans I have. My Desperate Measures night will be taking a brief hiatus as I want to 

a) make it free
b) make it unique and terrifying
c) promote it until there are friction burns

I'm lucky enough to know some very cool people, and I'm hoping to scheme with them soon, and see what trouble we can cause. Because trouble is awesome.

I would blog more, but I have a tech run to go do, and glaring mistakes in iambic pentameter to avoid. But this is the part of the blog I need you for. I am going on my enforced holiday, and I need the following:

- book suggestions. Whatever you like, I promise I'll give it a shot. If you're one of my Dub buddies, I promise you can trust me with the book in question. I will tuck it in every night, and use the finest silk bookmarks.

- event suggestions. If you have some kind of event after the 19th, or you've heard something is awesome, let me know and I'll show up and look dishevelled but interested.

- music suggestions. Dubstep to death metal, I will try everything. (Yes, I've started to like dubstep. The apocalypse is coming.)

Comment below. I love you all.

\m/

Tuesday, 7 June 2011

Doubts Are Traitors

If you are in Dublin, these are important things to note.

- Tomorrow night (Wednesday 8th June) there will a night of storytelling, music and poetry in Lanigans on the Quays. It is my own particular mindbaby, and is called Desperate Measures. All our performers are kidnapped from amazing nights around Dublin (Milk & Cookies, TongueBox, Marshmallow Ladyboy Jesus) and the night promises to be strangely beautiful. Like a clockwork wasp. Click on the above link for details.

- Saturday night is a movie-themed fancy dress night in the Turk's Head, Dublin. Drinks are going to be seriously cheap, people are going to be fancily-dressed and it's only a fiver on entry, which is the kind of madness God never intended. There's also rum prizes for the best-dressed boy and girl, which introduces a welcome edge of bloodsport to it all.

- And finally, Measure for Measure by William Shakespeare is on in the Back Loft from June 13th to June 18th, starring a host of gorgeous and talented people, and also me. It is a play full of sexual misogyny, manipulation and righteous disgust. It also has dirty jokes, podium sex and verbal tango. I believe you should go, and go lots. Click the link above for relevant (and some irrelevant) details.

This is what's consuming my time at the minute. On the 18th I shall be free, and I can get back to writing about the end of the world and pretty, angry girls with rose-coloured hair. Part of me wants mindless sci-fi explodey-fiction as well, as a kind of brain-shower from all the heavy Shakespearean I've been doing lately, but part of me doesn't want it to stop. I've been told I'd make a great Mercutio. Maybe I should check that out. 

This is a very packed summer. First there shall be trips abroad to see the Foos, (I love being out of Ireland, it's like I can feel the Christian guilt get stopped at the border, and indulge in all sorts of wicked things) the Milk & Cookies Secret Garden Festival, (I have never been at a festival before, and I sense this is the place to start) Electric Picnic and then... well then I leave again. No, I don't know where. Will probably involve me being under-prepared and wearing a big black coat though, which is always the best start to a story.

I'm going to go sleep now. Soon I will be free. Have some short prose, while I'm here.

\m/

*
Isabella

Somewhere, she remembers that she has always been afraid.

Her father didn't speak, except in words halfway to curses, each syllable an open-handed slap. Her mother was so faded that at times the child imagined seeing the vague shapes of thoughts under her skin; tight swirls of anger, the rippled bloom of hope.

Then her mother died and the thoughts went quiet, her skin unmoving wax.

She found herself staring at the crucifix over her mother's bed, fascinated by the peace on His face despite the squat nubs of the nails through his wrists, the stretched leather of his skin. He had died for all of their sins, the friars had told her, and shed the pain of dying behind him as he flew. She wanted to do that. To clothe herself in marble so they could hammer and hammer, but all she would do was crack and not bleed.

She learned hymns. She sang at the top of her lungs, until her voice was a sob. Her father died. Her brother grew older. She left them behind. Her god was strength.