Curled up on the right hand side of our double bed a small blonde girl giggles gleefully as she reaches the line "I'm telling you stories. Trust me."
We missed our flight. We hopped from tram, to metro, to metro, to train, to bus, juggling luggage and dragging it wildly across roads, up stairs and into carraiges only to find on arrival that check in had closed and our seats had gone.
Michelle had panic printed across her face, bold font clashed against her rosy cheeks and ever enlarging blue eyes; she was goldilocks in grandmas house, gretel desperately searching for crumbs. Crumbs came in the form of a friendly Italian boy running late for his flight home; his shared predicament and reassuring smile calmed her down. The chivalry of the latin man slowed her pulse and she began to smile. His efforts, however, were soon dashed by a large Dub man with a wicked grin, who announced with glee "Well you're screwed anyway".
When we arrived at the airport we tore through crowds and skipped past the queue of people to ask a cold spagetti looking woman if there was any chance of getting on the plane- she looked at us with scorn and glee and retorted "but check in closed twenty minutes ago haw, haw, haw". Wishing her rabies and wrinkles we ran for the ticketing desk where they checked the computer telling us we were too late but we could get a flight in the morning.
Three years ago my passport was stolen in Italy and I was not allowed to get the train to switzerland to get a flight home. Instead I spent most of the night in a train station in Florence avoiding a horrible man with a toothless grin and the next in the airport in Rome trying to get a flight home. The airport was brightly lit and there was nowhere to sleep, I was offered an office by a security guard but the feminist in me objected to getting preferential treatment to the boys scattered around the floor. So I thanked him and assured him I was fine. But I was not fine, soon I was cold and the benches had arm rests slouched half way across them preventing people from using them as beds. They were large metal things that felt like they had been nailed to the floor. When my bones started to ache for sleep my inner feminist flew out the window and I opted for comfort and spent ten minutes dragging one metal bench across the floor to push against another to use as a bed. I would not curl up on the cold floor like the boys, I needed comfort.
But my efforts were in vain, the bench was hard and jagged, I was no warmer and got little sleep. This was the memory that came to me when we were told we could not fly out until the morning. My teeshirt was almost sticking to me, my hair was wild, my face glowed with perspiration and so I asked where the nearest cheap hotel could be found.
On entering the hotel room Michelle and I were greeted with the site of a large double bed with a tiny bed hanging above. Neither of us moved, Michelle looked at me and said "so we have to make a decision, does one of us sleep in the uncomfortable bed or do we share." This was not a new situation, in Tunisia Michelle had foolishly offered me the double bed thinking I would be polite enough to turn it down, but I was not polite and took the double. And she was not genuine, so after one night in the single she climbed in next to me, both of us opting to share rather than sleep in the corner.
After many jokes about molesting her in her sleep, and the brown substance on my wrist that I opted to put in my mouth being poo, I took out my poetry books and fell into other peoples dreams. Michelle was bookless so I gave her with my favourite novel, a signed copy of Jeanette Wintersens 'The Passion' that I got at the Dublin Writers festival when we ventured out to hear jeanette wintersen talk. I have never seen someone read with such glee, after each description a mischievous child grin spread against Michelles face and large eyes popped gleefully over the top of the book as she read out passages, eventually getting to that wonderful line and reading to me...
"I'm telling you stories, trust me"
It was to be an evening of poetry, with two amazingly powerful and talented women at the helm but when we arrived something else lurked beneath the water. Encouraged to sit on the floor we were informed that this was also to be a protest against banks doing what banks do. So we sat uncomfortably on the ground, drinking wine, shifting uncomfortably from side to side as Eavan Boland and Paula Meehan read poetry laced with a strange combination of power and delicacy. We travelled to the underworld as daughters trapped for half a year beneath the ground then evolved into a mother rescuing the child and making soul staining bargains. Eavan took us through the journey from childhood, to woman hood- she took us into our countries past to the famine roads.
I was in Belmullet, standing by the side of the road with my skirt tucked between my knees as the wind threatened to steal me away, or worse still expose bright pink underwear to the world, when ailbhe and I had an arguement about poetry. It had started on the bus but came to a head in a crevice between the two possible places we could grab food- Ailbhe questioned whether a certain poet we both love could ever win the big prizes or achieve something more because she was unsure if he had found the great idea yet. 'Every poet', she told me, 'needs a great idea in order to mark their place in history- Heaney has his bog people moulding themselves up from the earth, he has northern ireland'- this poet she thought, had not found his idea yet. I argued that his beauty was in seeing the extraordinary qualities in ordinary things, in integrating science and philosophy into his work, breaking down the world and it's inhabitants as a form of deconstruction--- if life is a formula he breaks it down into it's simplest form in order to better understand it.
'To explore the collection of poetry as a poem in itself is part of the great idea' ms darcy informed me- 'they need to have a unifying theme, something that links them all together, something unique- that they own, that they created'. I took this concept and went a slightly different direction but along a similiar vein- the collection of poetry as an object- what scene does it create- if you were to sit down and paint the book what would you put on the page. The poets last book would be one full of mirrors, and creaking doors- I can picture it in my head- the floors are dark, the varnish worn down- there are doors leading in every direction but you are sure that behind each one lurks a ghost- in the kitchen there is a chopping board and several sets of keys that seem to fit none of the doors.
Another writer described his big idea a lot more eloquently and the issue was resolved it was agreed unanimously that he is wonderful but I am getting off the topic. Eavan Boland to me is a woman with more than a big idea- it is the type of idea that sucks in people, they inhabit the idea. Her work contains fragments of Irish history, Myths, womens history--- it incorporates the struggles of northern ireland, the growth of women, and the oppression of women into this beautiful delicate world woven with history lessons and beautiful stories. Her world is a garden with invisible monsters lurking in the bushes and powerful women to protect and explain it all to us, to help us understand and move onwards- to prevent us fighting dead monsters for the rest of our lives or ones that never existed to begin with. Her garden is in reality- it is in history with children playing on the lawn and a mother sitting cross legged peeking over a book---the monsters have been pushed to the outskirts "I have chosen: out of myth into history".
And yet she uses Myth so wonderfully in her work to explain history, to explain her own feelings towards her children.
Paula Meehan took the stage after Eavan, reading passionately poems about moons hidden in canals, warning us not to let loved ones travel the canals as it may give them a taste for adventure and their next journey could be longer. She tells us this as her partner lurks in the audience brandishing a beard grown bushy from his travels. I had never really read Paulas work- she had come into the literary society before but I arrived late and was squashed down with the gigglers on the floor behind a desk- I didn't get to hear her poetry and took the black clad boy mutterings about silly womans poetry as gospel. Her poetry blew me away- it was beautiful and she performed it so well, it was an experience listening to her read. Afterwards I read some of her poetry stumbling upon a poem called "Child Burial" where a woman whose child dies wishes she could spin it back into her womb, to spin it back to that point where an act of love created it and avoid that act- to lose it as drops of blood never conceived. Haunting poetry that grabs and twists something in the gut.
After this dose of powerful petite female poets I was in another world- but we were soon snapped back to reality- to the protest I had invaded. Theo Dorgan addressed us all as friends who had come for the protest- I felt like an intruder stumbling into a liberation armies meeting- I had come for the poetry and that alone. Theo spoke passionally and with power about civil liberties, of banks like king Midas who turned himself to gold "the very breath inside him turned to gold". He told us as lovers of poetry we should protest and stir things us quoting michael hartnett 'Poets and prophets make no pact, the act of poetry is a rebel act'- of course Hartnett didn't write it for this particular circumstance but it still applied. He delivered words meant to whizz inside us and turn us into a frenzy- with a voice and a presence that made me think I should be angered, that we are being violated. He rallied against those banks and institutions that destroy our world ending with fighting words- 'no one remembers who owned the banks in 1916, no one remembers who owned the banks in america..... but we remember the banks and the poets, trust me, will have the last word".
It was poetry to watch- he fought for a good cause but still his passion, ability to comand words and hold the stage reminded me of some of histories propogandaists leading men to their death- bringing us towards that unavoidable battle. We would fight those banks tooth and nail- if we lived a hundred years ago- but today we accept that you can not fight something that doesn't exist- you need capital to fight invisible money machines and as poets, we lack the resources. It would be wonderful to change the banks minds but all we can do is sit and listen to the poetry of propoganda- to the description of gold taking over midas, of the air tightening. As I sat their I imagined drinking hot gold and turning my own lungs to gold- I sat there wishing I could explore the idea of how long one could live. I loved Theos talk- he is a powerful man in a way that so few people are powerful- he has a great mind that could be a dangerous weapon if he didn't have the morals to command it or such a passionate love for the arts. But place him in another world a world in which the hugh lane gallery is closing, anglo irish writing is threatened, riots in the abbey theatre and question would he rally up the troops or be content to rave poetically to happy listeners?
Sorry I go on
.
It began in a little cafe with a sweet waiter who served us cold cappuchinos taking care to wipe the rims of our cups with a napkin to ensure the highest aesthetic quality. He smiled, an adorable half smile, twinkled his eyes, then pottered shyly back down the stairs. We drank the cappuchinos slowly- I did not enjoy mine but it started the day with a smile, then a nudge and a fluster of giggles and whispers about cute bashful waiters.
My mind is a hungover sleep deprived haze of colours and bubbles, shiny tights and furry hats, rainbow whistles that shrieked in the ears of anyone passing by. We watched the crowd from O'Connel street, walking against the parade scheming to become haare krishnas and start our own two person parade with a suicide mission, to collide with the rainbow people. So we walked and looked at men who were far prettier than I am, wearing far more makeup and far brighter colours than I could get away with wearing. We walked against them and took in the topless, the glam, the blue section, the navy section, the political agendas, the safe sex, the anti violence all the different motives circling around the one general theme- an anarchy of rainbows and wild crashing of colours as we all just forgot our lives and accepted each other for all the wonderful things that make us individuals.
The parade ended by Christchurch where drag queens twirled flags and a man in a furry hat told us about tights that keep him erect at night time, and the feeling of wearing two pairs together to tease him just a little. He was graphic by his own admission and looked a little sick and a little insane but he amused us, then scared us but added to the general fun for the day.
We then retreated to drink on the grass hills watching people fall over and praying that we would not be one of them; searched for bathrooms and newsagents, met people we hadn't seen in quite some time and of course made some brand new friends. We blew whistles and yelled, wearing hot pink cowboy hats and posing for pictures to go on random gay websites. Ailbhe assures me I am now officially a lesbian- but as a man in the queue for the bathroom pointed out- her legs will one day appear painted on buses. They proved to be her most photographed and commented upon feature- as a boy in templebar worried if the tights were really tights or random images permanently dotted onto her skin with miniscule needles.
Afterwards we wandered through dublin where a disgusted john harvey spotted us wearing "ridiculous" hats. We wandered on to UCD and proceeded to decorate our ridiculous hats with berries and leaves and little tiny flowers in purples and pinks and white. The night gradually drew us back to Basils house where our hats were admired as gay men spent the night trying to distract our attention so they could steal the flowers for their hair. Smokeable things were in plentiful supplies much to the delight of a young impressionable boy with rent boy lips.
We drank tequilla that made us gasp for air, drank sweet white wine and fat frogs- danced to the time warp and questioned who had ruined the beautiful white couches with what I hope were red wine stains(it was john harvey of course). I put make up on boys as they told me about shaving balls, men with no hair under their arms and other such things. Myles narrated my life wonderfully, ailbhe narrated my life poorly, some might even say secretarally. The greatest discovery of the night was my untapped talent for locating mens nipples while their tops were on unfortunately it didn't work for women as I failed horribly in pin pointing the points on grainnes top. I was attacked by kieran and myles's bums(which I refused to touch but were reputably quite firm), tongues that wanted to travel my nose and other such things as I got caught up in the vile den of sin.
When the night came to an end I headed back to Fionas where dotsy tried to convince me that his feet were worth having fetishes over and commented loosely on my feet. After talking about foot related things for quite some time everyone died and retreated to their various coffins as I slept like road kill in Fionas back room. I woke to sunshine and the sound of people creeping out front doors and soon followed suit. The sun made the endorphins in my head giggle and dance, children kicked balls and ran around merrily- I didn't know my way out of the state and walked blissfully past houses that seemed unfamiliar to me.
When I hit town I found myself in my church, hodges figgis- a man outside asked me to model my cowboy hat but I refused. It was not long before I was gatecrashing a coffee shop and joining a host of pretty gay men in a mission to find other pretty gay men and objectify them in a most objectional manner. I found out that beads and hamsters and small children are all acceptable sex toys for men, that you can get fungus infections from sleeping with dead people and that a certain unfortunate young lady likes to flash her bum(much to our amusement). We bitched, we giggled- we teased myles about ruining his modelling career with the sunshine and finally parted ways outside the dragon where I am assure by kieran a cute guy has amazingly good breakfast rolls.
The last two days have been colourful and full of innuendoes and all that wonderfully bitchy fun with pretty people who like to yank each others chains or beads and romp around with blow up sheep ;-) I hung around town for a few more hours, wearing my hot pink hat, then my red fulffy hat- before having a crowd of cute boys model my hat for me and scare me with an array of questions that threatened to make me miss my bus. Finally I went and found some more men who serenaded me with straws- striped just for me- in any colour I choose. I said I would pass but thank you, they said I was making a pass, and ran away to the sounds of their giggles thinking 'what a wonderful way to end a day'!
Now I am all prouded out I will sleep like road kill flattened on my bed by the sheer excitement of pride and all the things we should be proud off. It as times like this I love Dublin!
Chaos averted - I lived through christmas and new years and all the things before and after - even a few of the ones during.
It was great and then it was hungover and then it was great again and then i just really wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep. But a few good things came out of it - I finally got around to reading "Oranges are not the only fruit" I loved it, but not as much as I loved sexing the cherry and not anyway near "the passion" but what can live up to the passion anyway? I heard it was very lesbian, but it was actually very very tame! She only started going all fantastical world inside her head towards the end too. I did enjoy it - Myles says it's better than "the passion" but then Myles needs to be beaten up more! Never take advice from a dancing boy with a beard!
I lived through "Howl"s 50th anniversary- which may sound like a terrifically wonderful thing to live through and believe me it was, but I was sporting the worst hangover ever experienced by anyone on this earth or any other earth or water for that matter.
Tommy Tiernan was so wonderful- I didn't fancy him before he started reading but by the time he had finished his rendition of Howl he was a very attractive man lol. He put all his heart, soul, limbs, and tonsils into telling us about all these beat boys dragging themselves 'through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix', getting committed and Moloch!!!
And I love Moloch so- he was this god who parents would sacrifice their children to- im sure my parents would have if they had known they were supposed to ;)
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream
Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in
Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom
I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch
who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy!
Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch!
I love the repeition, it makes me giggle! � And I love karl solomon and his electric shocks and I love the way Tommy Tiernans voice grows louder and more emotional as he reads it.
I'm with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your
soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a
cross in the void
When Tommy Tiernan read to us he did so with a "neeeavvvan" accent- he did so with a country lilt and onamatapaeia! The clatters sounded like claaaatteren', his arms rose angryily, crazily, frustrated- his voice went from calm tranquil reflections to angry shouts and mental rollercoaster rants without time to collect your thoughts. He said before he began reading that sometimes it could be hard to understand all over the poem, it just washes over you like waves, and othertimes you were swimming in it or something to that effect- but he promised us one thing, that whatever the outcome or our level of understanding by the time the poem ended we'd know we'd been in the "wattar" He finished with the footnote to howl, but when he finished the footnote he decided that there were a lot more holy things in the world and preceded to shout out placenames in Ireland and shout "Holy" manically- it was wonderful and it really was Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and cock and hand
and asshole holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an angel!
There were stories by various writers about how they met Ginsberg. Theo Dorgan told us how he lured Ginsberg to Ireland by promising him an irish tweed suit(he couldnt afford ginsbergs usual $5,000 fee)- ginsberg wrote to him and said 'it was the suit that got me' Ginsberg was then buried in that same suit.
Tommy Tiernan described stalking Ginsberg through Dublin bars yelling at him as he passed by "I love Bob Dylan" only to have Ginsberg turn and say that he loved him too. He later jumped in on a conversation Ginsberg was having to inquire if he though "William Bouroughs and Samuel Beckett would have got along"- ginsberg thought they would have, I think they probably would have killed each other by accident but the survivor would write many interesting things about the death so it would all have been good! I gained a huge level of respect hearing of Tommy stalking Ginsberg through bars- it made me wish i had the chance to stalk him too!
Other notable highlights were Theo Dorgans own version of Howl, Gabriel Rosenstocks translations of Ginsbergs Haikus into Irish where we learned the irish for strange things and of course a special mention has to go to Dermod Moore for reading "Please Master" with all the gritt, desperation and passion that the poem deserves, he emphasised all the kinky bits, and read wildly about things that would make a rent boy blush.
We ended back in my place where I was a bad hostess and a grump nursing my headache, but stayed up all night listening to funny songs with our beloved stevie and trying to make stevie play that song of his I love. If my head wasnt throbbing it would have been far more magical, but then we vowed not to get quite as drunk the night before the 100th anniversary- only 50 years to wait ;-)
P.S. Ailbhe catches it all here.... "http://angelicish.journalspace.com/?cmd=displaycomments&dcid=69&entryid=69"
