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.



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. 

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