test

Sunday, August 14, 2011

The Glór Session - Monday 15th August


The Glór Sessions is Dublin's only weekly music and poetry event, and takes place every Monday at The International Bar, 23 Wicklow Street.  Hosted by Stephen James Smith, it's an event which if you've been to it before, you will deffo go back again, and if you haven't yet had the pleasure, then you're missing out on a fantastic night.

This Monday Stephen has been brave enough to invite me to perform, so if you're able to make it, that would be absolutely brilliant, and if we only know each other via blogger/twitter or facebook, well come up and say hello!

There's no cover charge, so arrive in plenty of time as it's a very popular event.  Show starts at  9 o'clock.


Stephen James Smith will preform in a new show as part of The Fringe Festival this September - See details HERE


Thursday, August 11, 2011

Thoughts for the Weekend - Joan O'Flynn



A little under 2 years ago a friend of mine died.  Her illness came quickly and took us all by surprise.  To say I loved this woman as a friend does not come close to how important she was to me.  Joan was a writer, an actress, a radio presenter, a mother, a grandmother, a wife, and the best of friends.  She made me laugh often. I listened to her advice because I knew she was so wise.  My life was better for her being part of it. 

Anyhow (fav crutch word), today something strange happened. By accident I hit her number on my mobile phone.  Now I know it's pretty odd that I still have her number in my phone, it wasn't like I was going to be able to call her.  But when she died, I couldn't remove it.  I realised when the number came up today, that I am now ready to do it, although I haven't done it yet.  I know for sure when I do, I will cry because well that's just me.

Because I thought of her again today, I read a diary which I kept the last time a number of us as friends went away on a writers retreat.  We all knew without being told that Joan's time was close, so we treated her like a Queen, in fact that was her blog name 'DramaQueen'. 

Below is an extract from my diary which I hope you will enjoy.  I have also put some quotes from Joan which I recorded in the diary, and her beautiful poem - 'When I'm Gone'.


The Last Weekend


We all stayed up late,
friends talking,
listening,
scolding,
giving away small pieces of ourselves,
emotions mixed in the cauldron of friendship,
reading poetry
as sleep fought the battle
of noise from hotel corridors,
and the anxiety of an unwell friend


Joan Quotes:-

"The gift of a book, is the gift of language."

"When you are an old hen like me, you won't care so much."

"I used to be like you, checked out of hotel rooms on time, now I live dangerously."

"Stop doing everything, let the idiots look after themselves."

"Never stop writing, I want to see your book on my shelf to remind me how clever you are."

"I guess the lung cancer missed out this time around."

"I'm only slagging you, if I had half my voice left, I would talk endlessly just like you."


When I'm Gone


The grown ups
will know it's in the order of things,
and shed some tears, heave a sigh of relief
to hide their grief and fears of their own mortality.


They'll reminisce
through the drab funeral days,
and kiss and laugh and cry and probably fight
because that's what families are like.


But the children will forget the look on my face
when they won a race, or gave a hug
or shrugged off a childish worry.
They won't know the glow each grandchild brought,


As they wrapped themselves around my heart.
They won't hear of the fear when ill health came,
lying awake feeling the heartache,
fearing the pain of the future.


They won't remember
because who can share
the things too frightening, too precious, too rare
that we hold in the soul of our being.


By Joan O Flynn -my good friend





My Interview with Michelle Moloney @ Rants, with occasional Music!


I don't normally say much, you all know that!!!  Anyhow (fav crutch word), here's my interview with Michelle Moloney all about writing, as a guest blog post on Derek Flynn's brilliant site Rants with occasional music :)

http://derekflynn.wordpress.com/2011/08/11/guest-post-michelle-moloney-king-interviews-writer-louise-phillips/

The hand that first held mine by Maggie O'Farrell - Book Club Review

We finally had our book club meeting last week, and boy we are a tough bunch!  But sure I'll let you decide that for yourselves! There are a couple more reviews to come, so I'll update the post when I get them.


'The hand that first held mine' - By Maggie O'Farrell - Winner of the 2010 Costa Novel Award



"The book was an easy read and I was always happy enough to return to it.  The content was questionable in a lot of places, some of it was very schmalshy (new word right there!) and the plot didn't so much thicken as curdle and begin to smell... Hard to see why it won the Costa - though it did help wile away a few tired hours without once taxing the brain so deserves some credit there..."


"There are a lot of good things which can be said for this novel.  At times the writing is rather wonderful, indeed it would be worth the read to study and enjoy the first chapter alone, because therein lies the writer Maggie O’Farrell at her best.  The scene in Soho is masterful, and again I would say worth picking up just to read this section. Unfortunately, the writing style becomes tiresome the further into the narrative you go, perhaps because the characters never quite live up to what the reader might have expected of them.  Nonetheless the author has a very unique style and I can understand why many would find this a very enjoyable read, it certainly is an easy read.  Also, I have to say that the shifts in point of view where done incredibly well, and worth future study of how Maggie O’Farrell perfected this art.
Overall though, this novel was a disappointment.  The characters were often whimsical to the extreme, and not distinctive in the sense that one often overlapped into the other, both in the modern day story and the older 50’s/60’s one.  Nor did the two stories work together well, and you were left wondering why they were set up to support each other in the first place.   Also, I found the mother /child element of the modern day story unrealistic, and like others I wondered if this author had experienced motherhood at all.  I was surprised therefore to discover that she had, and indeed that one of her aims was to highlight this relationship.  Perhaps something got lost in translation, or perhaps the writer was too close to the subject matter to transcend it onto the page, but whatever the reason, if this was Maggie O’Farrell’s intention, the result unfortunately came far short of the mark. "

"Reading 'The Hand that first Held Mine' reminded me of that Dorothy Parker quote - ""This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force." It really is just awful. It left me literally asking 'why?' It's poorly written, badly plotted and generally fairly pointless. Characters that the worst chick lit author would be embarrassed by, a plot as absent as its charm, and simple factual errors that were the cherry on the top of this dreadful literary cake. To be avoided. The Hand That First Held Mine? I think you can let go now... "

"Although there are elements of good writing in 'The hand that first held mine', O'Farrell fails to pull the two main stories together. The lack of plot doesn't help and the characters, Lexie in particular, remains wooden throughout."


"I felt this book exists in a limbo between literary and mainstream fiction. It is too banal and conventional to be literary, and it's characterisation is weak and one-dimensional. On the other hand it is too plot less to be a good pacy mainstream book. What sells this book (arguably) is its style which has it's moments but it is ultimately uneven.
I would imagine O'Farrell's style is polarising. It can be very arch and artificial and old fashioned and at times this worked for me, but across the novel it wore me down, and I found it self-indulgent. And this feels like a very self-indulgent project overall - you get the feeling that the author wanted to write about certain things - motherhood in one plot strand, the 50s/60s in another, but I didn't get the feeling that she had a strong plot-orientated concept to support either of these strands. So one plot strand (the weakest), set in the contemporary age, offers her the opportunity to think about motherhood and life with a new baby - but this plot strand has no movement. It feels like a series of plot less, pointless observations. Plot obviously isn't everything, but Elina and Ted are dull, dull, dull characters.
The stronger plot line - set in the 50s/60s - also feels like a free-flowing , directionless exploration of that era. Not a scrap of O'Farrell's no doubt exhaustive research remains unused by the end of it, and the reader is left swamped in over-description. This plot-strand features livelier characters, and Lexie is undoubtedly the novel's best character but that is only in relative terms to the other lifeless ciphers that populate these pages. Lexie is meant to be a girl finding herself and exploring herself, but she never quite lives up to her initial first chapter promise, Innes is meant to be smug and insufferable and is, but Lexie isn't too far behind him, but, fatally, neither of them are remotely interesting.
I got the impression that the author might have wanted to write a period novel primarily, but at some point decided for whatever reason (to make the novel 'relevant' perhaps) to provide a contemporary plot strand alongside. I think the novel would have worked if it had taken that risk and focused in on the 50s/60s - that's when O'Farrell's writing is at its best (relatively). In the contemporary plot strand she feels uncommitted and slapdash (particularly with details regarding babies), and consequently her characters end up being rather flat and the plot mopes about, wringing its hands aimlessly. Having said all this, I would read O'Farrell again under different circumstances. This type of novel is not her forté - her style would suit a more contemporary, experimental novel and her style could be interesting set in that sort of mould. But this is an odd fit of a novel - a stylist (however uneven) trapped in the confines of the dullest, most conventional novel you can imagine."

 

Tuesday, August 9, 2011

Magpie Tales - Soul Sharing

Image Courtesy of Tess @ Magpie Tales


It was a funny old house to begin with, out on it's own, no proper roads for miles around.  It stood bright at night, like Las Vegas in the middle of a desert.  On the porch late evenings, we talked, him more than I.  I was the listener, always was.

Most of the good bits about the house are gone now.  Haunting memories are all that remain.  He too left, not long after that last night.  I don't know why I choose to come back.  What I thought I'd find.

The front door on the porch is broken, hangs off the hinges along with the glass cracked windows and paint curling up like apple peel.  I rub my hands along where once we sat.  The wood course, dry, life sucked away by long hours of sunlight and abandoned nights. 

Once I loved to listen to the night sounds, a backdrop to his mellow words as I'd glide through it all, his tone changing with the lateness of the hour, or if he felt my father was nearby.  Whispers which caressed my neck as he leaned in closer.  I loved him.  I know that now.  

That last night before he went, I knew he wanted more from me.  More of my soul.  The part of me, I wasn't ready to share.  


For Other Contributions to this week's prompt visit HERE


Anti Room - Film Club

Great Event below:- All proceeds from the night go to Famine Relief in Somalia



Well, the votes are in, the people have spoken, and they say they’d like to watch Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell trading quips in the utterly brilliant His Girl Friday in the Workman’s Club on Wednesday, August 10th.

So come join us to watch the film, have a drink from the bar, and maybe sample a few delicious cakes and biscuits. Last month we had a free raffle, but this time we’ve decided to sell tickets and give the proceeds to famine relief in Somalia.

If you have anything to donate – unused books, tickets, vouchers, foodie stuff, CDs, beauty products, booze – we’ll happily take them off your hands. The film, as ever, will commence at 8pm, so get in there early-ish to get a good seat (during the last film there was standing room only at the back). See you there!



Image: @martin_gleeson

Sunday, August 7, 2011

A Poem about the Inner Voice


I stumbled across this poem today in search of another!  I've lost quite a few poems in my time due to computer crashes or whatever. Anyhow, I like this one, so now it's on the blog, where it might stay safe for a while.  I hope you like it too!






The Voice

Who's voice is this I want to know,
I hear her,
She is so familiar.

Sounds like me, but not so.
I hear her voice from years ago.

I hear it now,
I want to smile,
I love her spirit and her guile.

Where did she go?
I want to know.

I hear her playing a different tune,
The beat less sure,
The tone less tuned.

To strangers, she's a side of herself,
To family, friends, she's many guises.

To me, she's part of what might be.
I hear her voice,
Incessantly.


How Times Have Changed - Is there a tiger or a girl in the house?


Now, I know how you all secretly love these vintage ads, and I definitely like to keep you entertained, but today's advertisement from the 1970's sort of floors you!  For those of you who find the small print difficult, I have copied the words to below the image. 


Doll to Doll carpeting indeed!  

(Looking forward to your comments as always!) 




"Though she was a tiger lady, our hero didn't have to fire a shot to floor her.  After one look at Mr.Leggs slacks, she was ready to have him walk all over her.  That noble styling sure soothes the savage heart!  If you'd like your own doll to doll carpeting, hunt up a pair of these he man Mr Leggs slacks....."

Friday, August 5, 2011

Thought for the Weekend - Sean O'Casey


Wednesday, August 3, 2011

When You Were Small - The Chores!

This is the seventh post in the 'When You Were Small' series, and I have become very fond of them.  Firstly, I enjoy the personal experience of looking back and trying to remember things like -Who was your first best friend? At age did you fall in love?  Favourite Toy Memory? Favourite Memory? What did you dream about being when you were a little girl/boy? - I guess the list is as long as childhood. 

But the second thing I have become very fond of in relation to these posts, are the memories that many others share.  I find I am like a little child in a sweetshop when I see another new comment has come in.  It sort of reminds me of the excitement I feel when I get my hands on a new book, and I'm not fully sure what adventure, story, emotion, I am about to experience.  Like my own memories, some stories are funny, some sad, some a mix of both, but all of them have one essential ingredient in common, they are real.  Over the last few weeks reading these memories from all parts of the world, from different age groups, backgrounds, male or female, I've discovered another interesting gem, which is, we are all more alike than at first glance you might think.


So, apologies for the long introduction, but I felt the above needed to be said.  Today's question, is this one:-

When you were small, what was the best or the worst (or both), chore you were given to do.  I knew mine straight up, and in a way it was, the best and the worst.


As some of you might have read before, I grew up in a flat, so we had no back garden or front garden, but we did manage to have a step!  Okay, let me explain, outside each front door, there was a concrete step.  I suppose the step was the first thing people saw when they came to visit.  So having a clean step was a mighty important thing to have.  With this in mind, my chore was to clean the step.


Out I'd go with my metal bucket filled with soapy water and a hard steel brush, and I would scrub.  In the scrubbing came the joy, all those magical suds created patterns, patterns which I could change depending on the direction or the size of the swing.  I made lines up and down, across and over.  I made circles, and circles within circles.  The more I brushed, the more suds I would create.  Rivers of them would go streaming down to the doorways of other flats, my feet, my clothes, would get soaked, but it was such fun. 

The bad bit, and it wasn't really all that bad, was when the water went completely cold, because I knew it was nearly over, and the time had come to wash away all the lovely circles, lines, suds, and the white wonder would disappear to concrete grey again.


At the end of it all, my Mother, who was  the one designating the chores, had a clean step, and I had the wrinkled skin of an old women from hands being in the water too long! 


When I think about the step, strangely enough, I think about my Mother.  I think the step for her, was a small piece of something to be proud of in an otherwise very dismal place.  Now I know you might think that strange, but that's the way I feel about it. 


Seeing as how the step has brought back thoughts of my Mother, I have put at the end of this post, a very short poem called 'My Mothers Hands'.  To explain a little, the opening is a memory of when she would hold my hand on the way home from school, her front door keys in them, hurt, because she held my hand so tight.  The final part deals with her battle with diabetes and dementia near the end of her life, and the two angels, are the two children she lost as babies after I was born.  I hope you enjoy it.





My Mothers Hands

Her hands held little fingers with cold front door keys,
Wrapped a red coat over,
Protecting me from more than rain.
Pushed prams, peeled spuds,
No lady hands, but lady owned.
Skin like alabaster, soft not weak,
Hands of pain, hands of an optimistic soul.
Sprouting blood bubbles in pin pricked old age,
Folded quietly in distant melancholy,
Stolen by her minds disease.
In death as in life,
Angels drawn.



*


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...