Writing Plays – Method and Mindfulness

 

sfp edit3

My latest work, Sad Fuck Pub will feature at the Galway Fringe festival and its safe to say I’m pretty happy.

A minor feat to some, but a reasonably important one to myself. My previous play, Once More for Toby Jugg was a collaboration between my father and a rag tag band of other fantastic people. The learning curve involved in putting on a production of that length, with a cast of that size and with such little experience was, mathematically, a convex function. In terms of hillwalking it could be seen as the first ascent of the North Face and in terms of cooking it was like serving an Ortolan Bunting at a kids birthday party; the main point being it was quite difficult.

I suffered, what I can only imagine other writers might feel when they spend too long with a script. It felt more ‘writer’s fatigue’ than ‘writer’s block’. It was a nagging dislike for what I had written, manifesting itself physically in the form of minor anxiety attacks topped off with a confusing existential sense of self doubt. Why was it that the longer I spent crafting the script, the more I hated it? I mean, I never really ‘despised’ it, but I suffered from a sort of inverted Stockholm syndrome. A graph could chart my own familiarity with the script increase relative to my frustration, increasing ten fold when I finally sat down to a final re-write following its staging in the Smock Alley Theatre.

So, born out of that feeling I began writing something, anything else. Sad Fuck Pub began as a conversation (as most plays might) between three men at a pub. I was consumed with the idea of creating my own autonomous piece out from under the safety blanket of my father’s text, but I’m happy to admit I literally had no idea where to start. Rather than getting hung up on the context, or setting, or even the goal of the piece I began writing a dialogue I could hear in my head.

[Quick aside] I had once attended a performance of David Mammoth’s ‘Glengarry Glen Ross’, where my father was in direction of a sixth year class. I remember him recounting the school’s request to tone down the use of bad language; to which he replied ‘It simply doesn’t work without the cursing’, and he was right. Watching a seventeen year old boy (while I was only twelve myself) call another young boy, a ‘cunt’ really stuck with me. Since then I realised that cursing is part of the shared dictum. Expletives act like little jumping off points for words, the most natural form of expression when conveying an emotion. “Close the door” won’t garner the same reaction as “close the fucking door you Cunt”. Its the verbal equivalent of padding a bra, it just fills sentences out.

So, with that same pattern of thought I began writing. No names, no title, no indication as to who was who and why they had said what they had said. It was therapeutic, and incredibly freeing to simply mash into the keys what flowed through my brain (John Keat’s ghost would have been giving me a dainty clap at the speed I typed at) and at about a thousand words in I realised that I did indeed have a plan in mind for these characters. I realised that the cursing and the quips between them, in the most colloquial Dublin I could imagine was slowly forming a plot. Even though I had not titled the characters I knew ‘who was a who’. I slowly mused about putting them in differing situations. If Edgar met Ghandi what might he say, and how would Sonny deal with learning that his favourite Ice cream parlour no longer carried his favourite flavour?

Kurt Vonnegut’s Breakfast of Champions came to mind, specifically the scene in which Kurt throws himself into the text, revealing himself to Kilgore Trout as his creator. To show to Kilgore that he was indeed his creator (by virtue of being the book’s author) Kurt took him across the world and across all time, only to have him break down and cry for being shown that he was merely a character in a book. Now, I didn’t have such cruel intentions for my three bar flies, but it soon became apparent how trapped the characters were. I could at a whim toss all three of them in the ocean, or set fire to the stools beneath them but instead I decided to allow them to very slowly realise that they themselves, were not real (an arguably crueler fate).

This realisation organically began to appear the farther into the text I got. It was a process of slow manipulation and by its end I couldn’t help but attach crueler and crueler intentions to my characters, all the while stuffing their mouths with words I’ve heard said and words I meant to say. Now, when writing a piece concerning love, or lust or any other clichéd human emotion you have to be cautious about how much of yourself is added into the text. Bearing one’s soul is certainly in keeping with my idea that art is truth, but the real truth is most of our lives are mundane and what seems momentous to ourselves may seem like a ‘Made in Chelsea’ advert trailer to others. To circumvent the theatrics I, like a magpie building a nest of emotions began to borrow from conversations I’ve heard, text’s I’ve read, emotions I’ve felt and shit all men have said drinking pints of their own tears. Again, this may not sound like anything new but there is a little bit more skill involved in creating character’s that are meant to represent elements of masculinity, than expected. The more static the character the more important it is that you accurately represent that type of person.

Its always difficult to be certain when a piece is finished. I usually abide by the rule that a piece is only finished when any additional writing would ruin or detract from the intention (The very lack of which made finishing the piece even more difficult again). Self analysis never gets close to a scathing (and usually correct) critique by a trusted friend, but I was close to certain the piece was finished. I was able to tie the ends together, like a folded picnic blanket of male misery.

The cyclical nature of the surreal purgatory came organically. It ended when Edgar (the most boisterous of the three) finally succumbed to a soliloquy of his own. Once the three characters had said all that they could and would ever say, by virtue of the fact that they were mere representations, it came to an end. There is a finite amount of conversations that men can have after being broken hearted and I felt I managed to cover a good few of them. The play ends explaining to you that it will never end, or at least suggests those conversations in both tone and nature never will.

The play will run for three days during a lunch-time slot between the 21st and the 23rd of July. I would rather the production was at night, in a pub, to catch those watching unawares. I would rather the audience in a maudlin sigh stare down into their pint listening to reflections of their own lives; not to depress anyone but instead to stir them. That great feeling that comes with seeing a piece of art where one thinks “Jesus that is life, my life, in its truest form. It may not look exactly like it, but there it is, my life on stage, deeply understood by someone I’ve never met”.

 

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The relative usefulness of comparing Donald Trump to Hitler

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What has Donald Trump got to do with the daily lives of the average Irish person? Why does the Irish media cover, not only the American presidential race but also the Republican and Democratic primaries? Why is it that the man on street may have a better idea of American politics than he may have about our own inept and dysfunctional system of governance? “I heard that bollox Ben Carson is gone” “Be garra, what GOOD NEWS that is”.

It could be to do with our basic economic dependency on the ‘shtates’, our shared culture and influence, or the fact that we as a nation only really thrive when we exist as a tax haven for big American business. Whatever the reason, Irish people are very aware of American politics and ‘Oceania’s influence on the world so I, a ginger Irish man have an opinion on it.

What I want to discuss here is what I see as the relative usefulness of comparing Donald Trump with Adolf Hitler, so here I go.

To begin, Godwin’s law states “As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Nazis or Hitler approaches ” which is elaborated on by Godwin’s Wikipedia page, saying “ if an online discussion (regardless of topic or scope) goes on long enough, sooner or later someone will compare someone or something to Hitler or Nazism.”

Moustache and Hair

To say that Donald Trump is similar to Adolf Hitler is useful only if there is any truth in the statement that history is cyclical and doomed to repeat itself. The list of superlative comparisons is extensive; bizarre aesthetic quirks denoting deep-rooted insecurities like Trump’s crap hair and Hitler’s crap moustache. Hitler is famously said to have modelled his moustache after Charlie Chaplain, believing people might see him a likeable human being in the same sense that Trump doesn’t believe that a business mogul like himself could be bald (the Lex Luther comparison might be too much to handle).

Hitler’s own sexual oddities are also extensively chronicled, being descried as everything from a syphilitic sexual hermit to, according the controversial historian Ian Kershaw, a man that “Preferred younger women who were easy to dominate and mold”. Trump himself has also been quoted discussing his daughter’s sexual prowess. When asked about her potential participation in Playboy he was quoted as saying, “It would be really disappointing — not really — but it would depend on what’s inside the magazine. I don’t think Ivanka would do that, although she does have a very nice figure. I’ve said if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.”

The comparison here, although again superlative is at least entertaining, so you can see why it is joked about so heavily online. The equation of power and sexuality that they both appear to share conjures up images of Frank Underwood (from Netflix’s House of Cards) quasi-incestuous relationship with reporter Zoe Barnes; “A great man once said, everything is about sex. Except sex. Sex is about power.” You could feel the uncomfortable collective shudder around the world when this scene aired, and likewise when Trump made his own comments.

What needs to be kept in mind here that these comments are products of the opposition media’s PR offensive. Yes, both Hitler and Trump look weird and have creepy views of sexuality, but this is merely “Hello magazine” gossip level of criticism. If the American populous were to vote for a president’s based on his or her chaste behavior, John F Kennedy probably would have been taken as seriously as Vermin Supreme (the American presidential hopeful that wears a boot on his head).

The Race to Racism

Where the Hitler comparison matters and is at least useful is in how we analyse his campaign, his politics. Racially charged, jingoistic rhetoric served on a steamed bed of violence. The economic strain of Mexican immigrants perpetuated through crime is paralleled by Hitler’s own comments on Jewish Germans in Mein Kampft. “The Jewish train of thought in all this is clear. The Bolshevization of Germany – that is, the extermination of the national folkish Jewish intelligentsia to make possible the sweating of the German working class under the yoke of Jewish world finance – is conceived only as a preliminary to the further extension of this Jewish tendency of world conquest…. If our people and our state become the victim of these blood-thirsty and avaricious Jewish tyrants of nations, the whole earth will sink into the snares of this octopus.”

Trump’s own comments are perhaps less verbose in nature but they are certainly just as consistent in their economic racism. Both tap into a historic racism that preceded them. “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best. They’re not sending you. They’re not sending you. They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with us. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.” The message here, while not panning all Mexicans as rapists (keeping that door open for the self-loathing Mexican vote) is a new world approach to the same racist endeavour. While Trump is unable to blame all of the economic woes of America on the shoulder’s of one of its poorest and most marginalised ethnicities, he is certainly able to pin conservative America’s fear of drugs and crime on the influx of Mexican immigrants without batting an eye-lid. Instead of creating an economic enemy out of thin air, in the form of Mexican immigrants, Trump is drawing on a pre existing racism that is already deeply ingrained in his voter base. ‘You are right to hate these people’, is the crux of Trump’s comments.

It’s as though Donald Trump keeps a ‘Cliff Notes’ book on Fascism under his podium with a dog-eared summary page on hate-mongering constantly open to remind himself how this process works. “Make America Great Again”, is a slogan that I’m sure Joseph Goebbels would have been proud of. It immediately implies that America is currently not great (an idea that most lower income families in America could justifiably subscribe to) while then calmly asserting that the reason it is not ‘great’ is because of an ethnic minority, or foreign economic enemy; China. Does he mean ‘Great’ as Hitler meant wanting to return to pre-Versailles treaty Germany under the Kaiser’s control, or does he mean the Great America that used to have racially segregated schools? One has to ask, at which point in America’s past was it greater than now? It’s vague, patriotic and it fits neatly as sticker to the back of your Pick-up truck.

With all that said, Barack Obama’s “Change” slogan could also be pasted to the back of a Toyota Prius run on one’s own sense of self satisfaction but this really only explains the pageantry and over-simplicity of American elections in general; what matters is the socio-political direction the rhetoric leans towards. Obama’s presidential slogan pointed vaguely forward while Trumps points eerily backwards. Even our own little nation’s previous governing party, Fine Gael had a slogan modelled on that same idea of political direction. “Lets keeps the recovery going”, implied everything from ‘all is good so let’s keep going’ to ‘if you don’t vote us in the economy will collapse’.

Manipulation of Violence

The similarities between Trump and Hitler, relative to the violence of their campaigns can also be seen in the organisation of their political rallies. Again, I stop short of comparing a Trump rally to the Nuremberg rallies as I genuinely believe that whether it is a Republican or Democratic rally, all American presidential elections necessitate this level of spectacle; but there are some convincing theories around Trump supporters doling out punishment to protesters, namely that the situations that lead to this violence are contrived by Tump’s own campaign. One theory surrounds the cancellation of a rally in the urban, racially diverse (and after the arrival of trump) politically cantankerous college of Illinois in Chicago.

Protests mounted outside the rally causing delays, and after some hours of waiting an announcer spoke to the crowd, claiming the Chicago police department had called off the rally as a result of the possibility of violence. The Chicago police had made no such claim, and a statement made by a “CPD spokesman Anthony Guglielmi told The Associated Press that the department never told the Trump campaign there was a security threat at the University of Illinois at Chicago venue. He said the department had sufficient manpower on the scene to handle any situation. Guglielmi says the university’s police department also did not recommend that Trump call off the event. He says the decision was made “independently” by the campaign.”

Whether the decision itself was, as some claim, taken to provoke the already heated situation outside it does certainly does warrant a comparison to the seeds of violence incited by Hitler’s Beer Hall Putsch (and as the History channel berates us into remembering) the consequent global violence of the second World War. Trump on this occasion is maybe not so brazen as to seize a Beer Hall but in the same vein as saying ‘most Mexican’s are not crime perpetuating rapists, but quite a few are’ Trump manages to show us the 21st centuries version of the same call to arms.

Hitler was imprisoned after this incitement to violence but it garnered sympathy amongst those that viewed his violence as a necessary answer to the Germany’s destitution. Even Winston Churchill lost the general election following the second world war in 1945 to Clement Attlee, as the Briton’s viewed Churchill as a war time prime minister. The theory being that Churchill was the best man to lead the country during war but not in times of peace. Trump is a war-time president in that sense, and in order to convince the American population to vote for him, he must convince them they are at war. Violent skirmishes and political unrest at his rally’s can only work in his favour. Lets go backwards, let us use violence and let us blame this minority.

Hyperreality

To return to Godwin’s law, it asserts that as a result of its ubiquity, the comparison to Hitler might have lost its edge. As the Rubberbandits highlighted, in a characteristically bizarre video, our perceptions of reality as per the media are influenced by Baudrillardian Hyperreal Simulacrums; (which is actually quite a funny string of words when spoken with a hammy Limerick accent). This is to say they we exist in a state of Hyperreality. “Hyperreality is seen as a condition in which what is real and what is fiction are seamlessly blended together so that there is no clear distinction between where one ends and the other begins.” The Rubberbandits highlighted our immunisation to ISIL violence, and our detachment from genuine elements of evil. If we see grotesque elements of violence on a revolving basis, we move further away from being able to consciously digest it as real. If we hear YouTube Comment troll ‘CODSNIPEZ13’ compare Caitlyn Jenner to Hitler, we begin to lose interest the usefulness of that comparison.

Of course Godwin is correct in asserting that we in popular culture use Hitler as an anthropomorphic version of the abstract concept of evil (and as a result we use it too often) but as the Rubberbandit’s also highlighted, this dilutes the reality of the comparison. Hitler’s universal standing as the ‘the most evil man ever’ washes away in popular discourse the genuinely scary shit he did and used in his (lets not forget this little comparison) democratic election and subsequent rise to power.

This is not to say that I in anyway advocate fear mongering, but instead an objective take on the very real connection between the two. The reason that the Hitler comparison exists is because we must learn from history, we must learn to separate the apathy implied in Godwin’s law (however true it may be) and realise that Hitler exists as a warning to all of humanity, especially in the west. When we begin to see the same tactics employed we should take stock and really question, if Trump is elected why would we expect any alternate result?

 

Writing a new play and venerating the dead.

once more yeh


It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to write anything. It’s been even longer since I’ve sat down to write with any purpose. Not that this is one of those times; but it will be soon. Soon, I will be rewriting and hopefully staging a version of my Dad’s play ‘Once More For Toby Jugg’. He passed away two years ago and asked me to finish it. So that’s what I plan to do.

 

My Dad wrote many plays over his lifetime, some with small success, others with none. Now, you could ask, (as if out of the blue) ‘What is the measure of a piece of Art; is it at the say-so of a publishing agency? Is it the acclaim? Is it Van Geoghian interplay of suffering in life and the subsequent success in death that makes this measure? At very least, a reasonable reply from a publisher would have sufficed but very few, if none of those measures were applied to his plays. His short stories and poems featured in a few publications. He won a few awards as a young man as far as I know, but the big one, the full-length piece of work that should define him; that never came to fruition.

 

One of his earlier plays was titled ‘The Honour of Sorcha Daly’; it dealt with the theme of forgiveness. “Forgiveness is the Cruelest act of all” he would say. This was the theme, the message, the mantra he would recite; tapping away at the keys late at night as I was coming home from school. It must have been around the time of my leaving cert as I remember him searching for one of my History text-books under a dead-sea of yellow note pages. “Forgiveness is the cruelest act of all Eoghan”. “ OK, cool Dad”. It was an interesting juxtaposition and probably a catchier title than what he ran with. The last words of a woman killed in a brutal fashion sparks a religious movement when she asks God to forgive those who had slayed her. “Forgive them father for they know not what they do”.

 

That was a tangible and reasonably interesting plot to run with. I always quoted the Sinead O Connor Parody, ‘Niamh Connelly’,  from Father Ted, when he mentioned it; “ I love the use of crude religious imagery”. At very least I could have envisioned the blurb in red serif font standing boldly beneath the poster title; debating with the promoter whether or not to include some blood dripping from the wing tip of the ‘F’ in Forgiveness. It had an accessible, if not inverted allegorical quality to it.

 

‘Once More For Toby Jugg’ will not have as catchy a blurb, mainly because I’ve yet to fully comprehend what the play is about. Some detective work has been needed, piecing together the fractured strands of the play, very much a mosaic of his own life and thoughts; It’s a strange thing to reach that far into your parent’s psyche, to rummage around inside their past and their ‘then present’ state of mind. For all that uncomfortable searching, I still appreciate the opportunity that I have to see in writing the truths of the world, as my Dad would have understood them.

 

Personally, in my own humble way I very much believe that Art is truth. The truer something is, the greater a piece of Art becomes. And consistent with that line of thinking I believe his play to be a great piece of Art. Like hieroglyphics in tombs I’m reading my dad’s words; I’m deciphering what he must have meant, what it could mean.

 

One of the main reasons ‘Once More For Toby Jugg’ was never published (I believe) was because of the phases it went through. It was a play, then a screenplay; it was a commentary on fundamentalism with a strange splashing of the occult. It was morphed and altered so often that its many versions began to take off in different routs, and the venom of its purpose became diluted. The stand-out consistency in it was the elements of himself, within it; it was, at very least, consistently true.

 

Some of the versions I remember were mired in his own bizzare fascinations. Researching genuine Satanic bookshops in the leaky backstreets of London to purchase a book of spells to quote[1]. His search for authenticity was quite relentless. I remember he wouldn’t allow me to read the book of Grimoires that he had bought for fear of (his words), “evoking something beyond our control”. I sort of enjoyed messing with his own ironic faith in the power of those books. I partially read a passage once, having taken it without him knowing and he nearly fell off his chair as I read the biblical babble as convincingly as I could. I’m still unsure whether or not he feared what finishing the ‘spell’ might have actually manifested, or if he was more afraid that nothing would have come of it. Living half-way between knowing what they could do must have allowed him to believe that they were true. Words, mere written words, can take serious control over you if you allow them to, and I guess, at the heart of it, that is one of the things the play is trying to say.

 

This may be the most convoluted, and ultimately unsuccessful piece of promotion you have ever read, but I guess you could call this a warning. I plan to finish the play and have it staged. This is what will happen. It will because I have to; I just hope you might follow me as I do. At very least monitoring my struggle might give some fodder to the anthropologist of the future, studying our weird veneration of the dead.

 

 

[1] From the more reasonable comfort of his desk, I must mention

Life’s Dullest Fact: Its End

brown bread (rip)


In my hometown of Templeogue stands a pub called the Morgue, fifty meters to its left; Massey brothers funeral home. Separating the two is an off-license, a fast food takeaway and a pharmacy. Drink and eat your way to an early (local) grave. Just another musing about one of the plainest part of life; its end.

And that’s what we do, we project fantasies into life’s dullest facts. Mostly, I would say, because we fear it. What greater poetry can you add to the end of life, than claiming that it isn’t really the end? A fascination with an afterlife is a reasonable way of dealing with the inevitable. Valhalla, nirvana, heaven and hell, fantastic concepts of the beyond. Valhalla would be my personal choice, the hedonism associated with the Islamic faith just doesn’t sound like a good party. Virgins, yes, but virgins don’t really make me think ‘eternal bliss and carnal indulgence’, they make me think ‘sex education talks’ and fingering. An eternity of fingering. Not for me.

Death means differing things for me, as does it for everyone, but I share in the cynical acceptance of the finite. The ‘yolo’ that Christopher Hitchens advocated, not the one Twitter spammed into being. My god, the teen pregnancies and drug overdoes’ that must have been spawned from that in-articulation. ‘The greatest trick the devil ever played, was making people believe he didn’t exist’…and the misappropriation of ‘YOLO’. It seems that’s what happens when you squeeze ‘carpe diem’ into a catch phrase, just small enough to fit in giant letters to a hat…on a fat child’s head.

Death, I believe, should be treated with the same amount of time and energy as the concept of Heaven. A beautiful philosophical drink topic, but not one which should consume our daily lives. What’s out of our reach is merely that, and to throw ones arm to catch it, is to grasp at wisp’s of smoke. Intangible, and pointless, amusing and impossible.

The ritual that we have for death, is for the living. A macabre celebration of that same sadness and fear. I fucking hate funerals, I’ve been to too many. But I appreciate the dictum that’s adopted by the elderly. People who speak candidly about it, “sure isn’t it terrible, poor Johns dead”.  The weather is given more weight than death by the elderly because its passive and meaningless to them, its accepted and worried about least. In the short jolt of light between an infinite of darkness, of course the rain matters more. We can feel it, and so it matters most. Checking the freshness of the Brennans bread while making awkward eye contact with shoppers carrying ham in their basket. It must be a thrill, to simply wake up and be alive.

Gay Marriage and which way the Compass points

vote yes

 


 

An annotated version of Gay Byrne’s ‘Meaning of life’ television program went viral recently as Stephen Fry gave a speech about why he didn’t believe that God was that good a dude. “How dare [God] create a world where there is so much misery that is not our fault”, Fry’s retorts were succinct and devastating. Gaybo grimacing in the face of some harsh truths was lauded as a brilliant moment of television, but also a great stand against hypocrisy, by many who feel the same antipathy towards the ignorance of organized religion. Fry described the existence of creatures “who’s entire lifecycle is to burrow into the eyes of children and make them blind”; a demon fouler than most in the good book, then blankly asked, “why did [God] do that to us”?

 

The world felt lighter as the agnostics and atheists collectively jumped out of their couches in excitement, but I found it harder to make the leap. I wholly agreed with Fry, I think he very eloquently voiced what many of us think; but this was no revelation. Not for fry, and not for myself. Fry had appeared in several interviews with that same argument and that same level of wit. He was reaming off a rehearsed truth, which to many seemed like a revelation. Now, had our former president Mary McAleese, when she had appeared on the same show, approached religious hypocrisy with the same level of intellectual courage and show of force, I may have spilled some of tea jolting forward in my chair.

 

Our former president’s interview was frustrating to watch. A woman who has clearly accomplished so much in her life, an intellectual and a human of great moral command, floundered in obedient frustration when speaking about the church’s view on Women priests. She had sent letters to the Vatican, and had spoken with theologians in an effort to know why women, like herself could not stand as equals with men. It pained me to see a person I respected so much remain faithful to an institution which still, in modern society, practices discrimination while telling us its merely tradition. She held on to her church when she knew it was wrong, when she knew there was no justification for their decision.

Only recently McAleese came out publicly in favour of Gay marriage, opposition to which can be, and should be classed among numerous growing pains that we face, as we emerge from the ‘primordial ooze’ of Catholic Ireland. Why should the endorsement of a base level moral decision come as a surprise to so many? Because of the former president’s irrational affinity with the old gods of the Irish value system, I would imagine.

 

In a lot of ways, it displayed to me exactly the mental backflips being made by the reasoned and right-minded older generations of our country. Chained to a religious and conservative upbringing their moral compass comes built with a dysfunctional magnet, never allowing their decisions to point forward, but always sideways or backwards. Of course there are those who in their colloquial and Irish air’s say, ‘Well who I am I to say that these people can’t get married’; and that’s one position, one which is acceptable from those ingrained with the dysfunctional compass. We, the energetic, young, hungry and Irish, who fucked our compasses into a river and decided to navigate by the stars, we cannot take ourselves out of this equation as the older generation so politely do. We are, in every literal sense of the word, the men and women who will say if our friends, our brothers, our sisters and peers do have the right to marry. We are the ones who say gay people can be a husband or a wife. We are not impartial, we cannot be, and we cannot allow others to be either. This decision is bigger than ourselves, our local pub talks, GAA teams, our after sessions, our college coffee breaks, the small nucleus cells which swim past one another everyday occupying the same living creature, separated by post codes and TV shows, accents and inflections, we are all bound to the same roads to walk on and the same sea that surrounds us. Ireland is our country, we own its future morality, its politics and its laws. This referendum is the first brick we law down, in the foundation of a state that is truly ours. We can argue and disagree, even tear ourselves apart, but so long as we do it on an equal playing field, where every member of this state we have created has an equal opportunity to tear it down, then we can truly say this country is our own.

 

The No Campaign’s posters, which litter the poles and street corners of my suburb and Town are a glaring reminder of the morally repugnant elements which still hide in corners of our society. Acting the victim while playing the villain, they complain about being bullied and silenced as though its surprising that when they oppose the word word ‘equality’ we might shout ‘inequality’ back in response. I would have been, for while of the view that ‘we should allow them to hang themselves’, allow the public full view of their idiocy, let the people of this country see for themselves the claw marks they make in a cell of their own invention. Watching a deranged No campaign preacher list off Biblical quotes at the gates of Trinity College, it felt like I was passing a stall in ‘The Life of Brian’. For the brief moment I enjoyed snickering at his eccentricities, then suddenly remembered, even in Python’s satirical film, people still followed the ‘Holy Gourd of Jerusalem’.

 

We cannot afford to allow the hysterical and the bigoted to take stake in our country. We cannot afford to be pulled backwards into a time that isn’t our own. The past is a foreign place, the future is where we live, where you reading this will live, your vote on May 22nd decides which way the compass points; I hope you join me in finding something better to lead ourselves, than a fucking compass.

 

#Grá #Tá #VoteYes


 

Why I smoke (Can’t stop)

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When you smoke, you’re slightly more aware of the fact you will be dead, before people who don’t. You know because it’s on the packets, you know because the adds tell you, and show you; and show you again, and again, and again. It makes you more aware of the word ‘mortality’. Sometimes you catch yourself working it into conversations; which makes you look nuts. “What time is it Eoghan, if ya have it?” “The final hour…” (drags deeply). How can you not when you’re being shown versions of yourself in the back garden, having a smoke after dinner while half your body is a skeleton, and little cancerous cartoon people, dressed like Hitler are A-bombing your lungs. You’re fucked. “Smoking Kills”, shit this must be dangerous, this might kill me? Fuck, I’ve smoked them. I must be dead by that logic. Why the fuck am I doing this? Fuck that, no way, it’s not my fault they’ve got me. It’s strange being a smoker.

 

There’s a comfort in smoking; you sort of have a grasp on what it is that will kill you. Sure it’ll destroy your teeth, lungs, skin and (so I’ve read) your sex drive, but it’s on your terms. Well, actually it’s on the cigarette terms, but smokers enter into an unspoken agreement with cigarettes. Kill me and I’ll grant you a better chance at social interaction at nightclubs, smoke me proudly and drunk girls at parties will ask you for a lighter, try to quit me and I’ll make you more irritable than a cat hooked to a car battery.

 

Currently, Leo Varadkar, current minister for health, and James Reilly, former minister for health; are battling the dreaded cigarette scourge in a High Court battle over branding. Reilly, a former doctor and a picture health himself, is trying to leave behind a legacy in Irish health reform. The final societal ill, after homophobic marriage laws, defunct abortion legislation and an Irish water catastrophe which looks like Tahir Square, but with the occasional 15 bus in the background. They are planning to remove the vibrant branding and alluring colours, which keep the ash-lunged masses sucking years sucking their life clock.

 

I suppose it can’t be condemned, to want to save lives, and end bad-breath. But they can get fucked if they believe I’ll be a better person for it. Healthier? Certainly. Better, Doubtable. It’s the indefensible and I’ve I have no intention of defending it. This is merely a little rant, it has no purpose, it barely makes sense, but at the very least it’s cathartic to describe my seedy relationship I have with cigarettes. My body in crumbing under the weight of my own delusion, but I would be straight up lying to you if I told  you I didn’t like it. I started smoking because I thought it was cool, and I guess I still think it is. There’s a grace, and fluidity to occupied hand movement’s, waving blue carcinogens in the air. “Watch out baby, I’m dangerous”. I’m dangerous to myself, and others, and children and cats and dogs. I’ll sit in the frozen rain just to bum ends of a filth-lipped hobo. If you want to quit, make sure your serious about it. Those sexy little sirens are masters of seduction.

Charlie Hedbo – A short note to those who wish to write

Dear Journalists,

 

Today is not the first, nor the last day that we will see blood and ink mix. Today is a day when those who choose not to write, who do not engage with a public discourse, who choose ideology over humanity, again attempt to destroy those who do. It is not a day for fear or for hatred, but for anger, an anger that must birth retaliation. Violent words and loaded keys, sharpened pencils and gruesome wit crafted into atomic blows against ignorance and fear mongering. The freedom of speech is written words not in blood and bullets, and the true martyrs die because they have spoken the truth, not because they clutch to an afterlife like children to toys.

 

Eoghan.