Everything & Nothing

Dreaming For You - Feature Film

2012-03-05T19:17:00.005-08:00

This, for me, is a very late release of the film 'Dreaming For You'. It was shot quite a while ago, and after it screened at the Galway Film Fleadh 2009 I never got around to sending it anywhere else or attempting to release it, which is shameful really.

It is a very indie flick, shot by just myself and the fashion photographer Gerry Balfe Smyth whilst we were living together in New York simply because we could and we wanted to make a film. A synopsis of the film is below, but we essentially wanted to make something that showed the beauty and grit of New York counter balanced with the dangerous isolation that can happen with living in such a big city.

It was written in about 6 days, organised and then shot in another 3 weeks, with actors from my then acting class with Nina Murrano, the excellent Kettie Rompre, James Catanzaro, the hip hop artist Seijo Imazaki, and Rekha Luther, alongside Tom Lambertsen who was in the original short of the same name, as you can see from my last blog post. I had planned to have Jordan Adams star in this feature version but he wasn't around and we didn't have time to wait, so I just acted in it and Gerry, ostensibly a fashion stills photographer picked up the video camera for the first time.

It has a beautiful score by the Evora, and specifically Alan Rickard, and also Kevin Whyms as the producer Whymsonics, and it has some wonderful moments.

SYNOPSIS:

A dark and gritty drama set in NYC of a young disillusioned actor who after attempting to kill himself as his relationship falls apart, meets a homeless tramp after a chance meeting on the street. Taking the man home, Adam begins to open up, only to find himself drifting further away from reality as David takes over his life and his anger consumes him. Who is David and what does he really want are questions Adam cannot answer as he falls deeper into a psychological haze...

Download and watch the movie on distrify below if you're interested - just copy the link into your browser.

http://distrify.com/films/1372-dreaming-for-you

Or you can like, comment and watch it on the official facebook page:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dreaming-For-You/308727819189445?sk=app_203403406338325

Dreaming For You Short Film

2012-03-04T17:27:00.000-08:00

'Dreaming For You'

This is a little blog about my very first short film, 'dreaming for you', that I made whilst living in Los Angeles 5/6 years ago (2006), when I was initially figuring out the whole acting/film making malarky. All the actors were in my acting class with the esteemed coach Vincent Chase - who's name Mark Wahlberg used for 'Entourage' after Vince trained him.
We shot it in a few days and it played in festivals in Los Angeles and San Francisco. I have never been very good at putting out work I've made, I realize that I have a tendency which afflicts many artists and film makers I know, that once you make something you understand how to make something better and so want to move on and you ignore the project you spent time on. But I really like this little short, parts are too long and it's interesting looking at the stylistic choices I made with cuts and fades, but I still like the shot compositions and I love the acting, I think Jordan and Tom as the two disillusioned actors are especially great.

The film resonates with me because this is what LA can be like for many actors very quickly and easily, it can suck you in and spit you out and there are a lot of people I met over there who I found had a similar tone in their lives as to in this film.
I'm putting this up in advance of finally getting the feature version of the same name 'Dreaming For You', up on the self distribution service 'Distrify'. The feature was selected for the 2009 Galway Film Festival after I shot it in New York with my room mate and fashion photographer Gerry Balfe Smyth -- http://gerrybalfesmyth.com/. It got a great reception and again when I privately screened it for 100 people in the Odessa Club in Dublin, then I was working and never got around to trying to get it out there or distribute it or promote it....not having a producer and moving onto another project is one thing and then I also had by learned afterwards how to better write a script.....Again I used actors I met in my acting class, and also Tom, only this time I acted in it, be default really as Jordan, from the short who I'd wanted in the feature was away and we only had a 10day window before Gerry went back to Ireland. I'll put up a blog about in a few days when the film goes live, and I'll attach the trailer for the feature below this short film.

The short was made 5 years ago, shot on the Canon XL1, a real film makers camera, and the music was by Nigel Linden who is a great talent. It was my first short, so it has mistakes, not least having no sound guy, and like the feature was made for about $5, but with these type of art house films, for me it's about making the film and the story and trying to create something, and if parts work, well parts don' work! I've been told don't be critical vocally of your own work, but I am aware of the positives and negatives inherent in both projects, but there are aspects of the tone and mood that really appeal I think.

Hope you enjoy and hopefully it captures some of the sense of Los Angeles....

Below is the trailer for the trailer of the feature of the same name, but a very different film, shot in New York, the main similarity being it is also in Black and White and has a similar atmosphere, but if you liked the style of the short you should like the feature much more.....or so the theory goes...

Autumn - A Chapter from the Book....

2012-02-26T14:01:00.000-08:00

Autumn is a book about a young teenage boy, Sam, growing up in Dublin and having his first experiences of sex, alcohol, friendship and all the painfully excruciating events young pubescent boys go through in life. This is an early chapter in the book, chapter 5 of 30 so far.

"Antoinette, and not the Queen of England'

The DART was almost empty apart from Daniel and Sam, providing them with the luxury of room for their feet on the opposite seats, which they greedily indulged in. Quite often Sam had been admonished by older members of society for this slight against public transport, and quite often he had ignored their variations of pleas, irritated gestures and full blown tirades. Truth be told when this did happen he quite enjoyed it. Being at the wrong end of peer abuse, however minor, gave a youth a valid free license to react aggressively in relatively placid situations, which probably led to greater indiscretions later in life such as road rage, abuse or even assault. In some cases, but not all.

Daniel was regaling Sam with another of his faintly amusing overly lengthy anecdotes concerning Japanese manga and Bruce Lee, an unhealthy obsession that coupled with a growing regard for smoking hash every afternoon after school was beginning to strain their relationship. Sam smiled appropriately and gave up trying to understand the in-jokes and convoluted story lines that he was meant to have been following, until Daniel's monologue took a sharp beat and began to describe Catriona. Sam's attention levels immediately perked up, and he began listening avidly.

"she's a fucking fox seriously"

"yeah so you've been saying"

"yeah but i mean, seriously"

"as opposed to....'unseriously'?!"

"exactly that. she's definitely the coolest girl i've ever met, amazing tits on her"

Sam waited a moment for Daniel to stare glassy eyed up at the roof, lost amidst his own illicit teenage thoughts. Daniel was bringing Sam with him pretty much as a wingman so that he could assist him in getting into her knickers as it were. The deal was simple, Daniel would bring a friend for moral support and to have a crutch to brag to afterwards if it went well, and a back up plan in case it went pear shaped, which was quite likely in Sam's mind as Daniel wasn't the most athletic sort to put it politely. For Catriona's end, she brought a friend for two reasons, in case Daniel turned out be a wierdo and she needed some assistance, or in case he was just plain boring and she had a ready made escape plan, putting the blame on her friend. Sam didn't mind being used in the slightest, he didn't really get to meet girls very often so he couldn't complain. Daniel smiled almost patronisingly across at him and after a furtive check up and down the carriage he took a cigarette and lighter out of his jacket pocket.

"you can't smoke in here"

"fuck it who cares"

Sam shook his head and stared out the window watching Dalkey beach roll by gently. A couple strolled arm in arm ankle deep in the surf whilst holding their shoes in their hands. Sam hadn't had a girlfriend yet, he had in fact yet to kiss a girl properly if you discounted the 'spin the bottle' game he had been forced to play when he was still in primary school, and kissing his next door neighbour when he was 6 definitely didn't count. Smoke wafted into his eyes and his gentle brown eyes focused on the hyperactive face of Daniel. Daniel had a way with words, always ready to engage with a quick quip, a smart response or intelligent answer, and could talk actively on a variety of subjects, constantly aware of the latest up and coming musician or film, even able to hold a conversation on politics if it was requried. Sam both admired and was painfully jealous of him for this ability that he oft attempted but consistently failed to imitate.

"i'm sure her mate is hot"

Sam raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"no you don't"

"i do, i do, seriously, hot girls always have hot mates, it's part of the law i think"

Sam's cheeks cracked into a wide smile, stretching his skin across face tightly.

"gimme a break, 'the law'!, hot girls tend to bring ugly mates, you know that, it

makes them feel more confident and ensures that they get all the attention. it works

out for the ugly tag a longs too cos' then they get to hang out with boys which they

wouldn't get the opportunity otherwise"

Daniel's cigarette dropped out of his gaping mouth in a gesture of exaggerated mock shock, holding the pose with such distinction that a thin sliver of saliva found it's way past the sentry system on his dried lips and took pleasing aim at his welcoming crotch. Sam shook his head and giggled as Daniel maintained the statuesque grimace, frozen in time.

"i know that you agree with me"

Daniel managed to hold the pose with admirable stillness while manipulating his vocal chords much like a ventriloquist.

"where did all that come from, i'm 'SHOCKED'"

"yeah i can see that, keep that face for later, i'm sure Catriona would be bowled

over by it"

"seriously, that was just soo incredibly.......deeeep"

Daniel's voice slowed down like a old motor engine gradually heaving it's last breath despite it's best efforts to keep within the land of the living. The sliver of saliva made a giant push for freedom, aided by the stream of hot air emanating from Daniel's open throat as he exhaled heavily from the exertion of holding the unnatural contortion. Hanging on the precipice of his lips, the saliva formed a heavy bead, focusing all of it's weight at the tip of it's form, begging for gravity to sweep it downwards. Daniel suddenly jerked his head sideways loosening his jaw and the liquid flew out of his mouth and splattered on to the dirty window beside him with a wet slap, and dribbled down onto the wall beneath. Daniel grimaced at the indiscretion and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand with a wide smile.

"you are right, her mate's going to be dog ugly, probably fat"

"so you agree with my theory?"

"surprisingly, for the first time when it comes to girls, i will give you some credit for insight"

"well if i'm correct, then it begs the question why did you bring me with you"

"why, why wouldn't i?"

The implications of what Sam was suggesting caught Daniel unguarded and swept up behind him like a thief, slapping him dryly across the face.

"very funny, yeah yeah. the reason i brought you is cos you haven't a clue

what to do with girls so even if i left you and her alone in her bedroom in the middle of the night with no clothes on you'd still come out a virgin"

"i think that's a great theory, we should test that, i'll put it to her later will i?"

Daniel leapt to his feet and grabbed at Sam, who ducked under his loose hands and reached for his midriff. They grappled for a few moments, but Daniel was out of breath far too quickly and he begged for a halt to the proceedings. Sam fell back onto his seat, his features calm without a bead of sweat on his smooth skin. Daniel's cheeks were flushed, and his breathing was a little laboured in contrast. He fumbled with his hands in his pockets searching for the calming influence that would come from his illegally acquired nicotine.

"this is our stop"

Daniel nodded as he fished a lighter and a packet of Silk Cut Blue from the deep crevices of his jacket pockets and stuck one firmly into his fleshy mouth like a poor man's Clint Eastwood. The doors of the DART slid open with an easy going 'whoosh' and the two alighted on the platform of Bray station. The foot bridge brought them over the train tracks and onto the opposite side where Daniel halted suddenly, uncertainty gripping him. Sam looked at him quizzically as he stood there staring at his feet on the gum flecked platform.

"what are you doing?"

"i'm nervous"

"you're kidding me? YOU, you're nervous??"

Daniel's head bobbed up and down slowly, the tension in his shoulder muscles giving the movement a surreal halting effect.

"but you've already kissed her, a few times i thought?"

"no, i never said that"

"yes you did, you said it loads of times"

"no no, you must have misheard me"

"oh, right then, that's a problem isn't it?"

Sam sighed and kicked out at an imaginary football in front of him, then mid kick a thought hit him and he almost collapsed with laughter, dropping to his knees as all his breath left his belly. Daniel lifted his sullen gaze up questioningly to his best friend.

"what the fuck's so funny?"

Sam put his hand out in Daniel's general direction indicating for him to give him a moment to catch his breath again before he gave an explanation, then, chest heaving from the exertion he stood up again, his hands gripping his hips for stability.

"we got into so much trouble, almost got kicked out of Mr. Cusack's class, i got sent to Fr Kelly's office, double detention, already today and tomorrow, we get an hour train ride to Bray, and now we finally get here and you tell me that you're embarrassed and haven't actually kissed this girl that you've been rambling on about for the last 2 weeks!!! Come on, you have to see the ridiculously funny side of that?!"

"well, no....i kinda feel like a nob"

"yes you are a bit of an idiot alright, but luckily for you i'm very easy going"

"ok, well, what if she hates me?"

"seriously, i don't really care. honestly. look if you're struggling, just send her over

to me and she'll see how much wittier you are and you'll be grand, i'm your sounding board to bounce off and make you look good"

Daniel visibly brightened and he stood up straight, taking a deep inhalation of the cigarette.

"you're right, cheers"

"hey, you weren't meant to agree with me"

"sorry, i kinda do"

"bastard"

"yep"

Sam mocked pushed at Daniel as they strolled forward through the exit gates as nonchalantly as was physically possible in dull grey school uniforms. They didn't have to wait very long to find who they were looking for, it was painfully obvious that the two tall slim blondes in short skirts sitting on the bench across the road was their destination from their fixated looks. Catriona, the taller, slimmer and blonder of the two stood up, flicked her cigarette out onto the pavement where it smoldered fitfully and approached them. For the first time it occurred to Sam that perhaps they shouldn't have worn their school uniforms. A variety of different possible outfit choices flashes before his eyes as he mentally tried each on and gauged her reaction by judging the imagined movements of her eyebrows when she was suddenly standing in front of his nose piercing him with her sharp green eyes.

"howrya, i'm Antoinette, what's yer name?"

Her harsh accent shook him for a moment, so far removed from the delicate beauty of her features, and he had to swallow the nausea that threatened to crawl out of his belly.

"i'm Sam"

He looked around confused, wasn't he meant to be hanging out with the ugly friend? Barely two steps to his left stood Daniel, his mouth firmly latched onto the other smaller blonde's lips, their tongues dancing hungrily around each other. Fuck. Sam had been expecting a nice simple relaxing afternoon entertaining Catriona's boring friend until Daniel had made all his plays and either succeeded or failed trying miserably, yet instead Daniel hadn't even had to lift a finger and he had already achieved his goal, and Sam was facing the most gorgeous and confidently cool girl he had ever seen in his life. In the split second that it took Sam to correct his senses and register what was going around him, it suddenly occurred to him that Antoinette was looking at him expectantly. Waiting for him to say something. His palms suddenly felt very heavy and sweaty, just like when he was in an exam and struggling badly, the wet wood of the pencil slipping from it's position between his trembling fingers, which Antoinette now lifted up, enclosed in hers and lead him away from their clearly occupied friends. Her skin felt so soft and delicate, but firm with a deep seeded confidence, a sexual maturity. He wished and prayed that she wouldn't be able to feel the sticky sweat that oozed from the pores across his skin. He found his voice again, as much a defensive reaction to give her something else to think about as anything else.

"didn't take them long did it?"

He smiled across at her, and to his pleasant surprise she smiled back at him without a hint of condescension. Her smile was radiant, easy, and he felt his own smile warping his mouth awkwardly as he became aware of it's gawkish nature.

"we should leave em alone fer a few minutes, let them get to know each otha. I told Cat that we'd meet her down at de pier and get an ice cream, that alrigh' wit ye?"

"yeah sure, i have no idea about Bray anyway"

"first time is it, where ya from?"

"howth, the other side of the city"

Antoinette looked at him, her lip curling upwards in amusement, and Sam felt his heart drop down through his chest and fix itself solidly inside his left foot giving him an instant and unexpected limp.

"howth? yer a bit posh are ya then?"

"no, why would that make me posh?"

"gimme a break, goin to a nice private school paid fer by daddy and living in the poshest part of Dublin"

"ah listen, where i'm from it isn't that posh trust me"

"yeah, why's dat?"

"ah well, just it's not all big houses and all that, there are lots of, well you know...."

He struggled to give a proper definition of the lads on the roads around him who would beat you up for a fiver without sounding really posh and describing them as having accents like hers. That would be much worse than just accepting that he was posh.

"righ' yeah, what's yer dad do den?"

"so what school do you go to?"

Sam changed the subject quickly, the conversation heading in a direction that he really didn't want it to.

"loretto"

Sam reeled back in mock amusement, the movement breaking the connection between their bodies as his hand came apart from hers. He immediately regretted it but didn't know how to just grab her hand again without appearing desperate for her affection or being too obvious about his desire for her - how could he do it like she did, so casually as if it was the most natural thing in the world. His fingers felt about as nimble as a bucket at this very moment and he knew he'd most likely end up scrabbling at her hands desperately, half hoping that something would just happen to put him out his self inflicted misery.

"wha's wrong wit going te Loretto den?"

"just as posh as Belvedere, probably even more so"

"'even more so'?? who de hell speaks like dat?"

Sam could feel this slipping away from him, washing over him like a frothing tidal wave proving that he was way out of his depth. He imagined what some of the other lads in his class would do in this situation....well they wouldn't have let go of her hand that was for sure, most likely they'd have pushed her up against the wall and kissed her eager lips with a suave energy that he had no idea how to acquire. He didn't know what to do so he just stared blankly back at her. And she laughed good naturedly. She had thought his blank look was a deadpan joke. Still giggling to herself she pushed her hips out towards him so that they bumped into him gently, the impact sending a frisson of excited energy leaping around his system screaming out for some internal implosion. He made a decision which he immediately regretted and then just as immediately was thankful for, and grabbed her hand firmly with his. It was maybe too firm he thought and was about to loosen the crushing grip on her slender digits when he caught a blush wink out at him from her smooth cheeks and her eyes flicked at him shyly on their way down to her feet. A wave of elation swept over him, followed swiftly by a crushing insecurity. She had blushed for him so by all the average laws of attraction, (of which he admittedly knew very little), then she must like him at least a little bit.......but what if she didn't and he made an ill advised pass at her only to be rejected out of hand. Or even worse was the thought that if she did in actuality like him, did she now have expectations of some sort of confidently subtle gesture to sweep her off her feet. How would he compare with all the previous guys that she had kissed, how had they acted with her, would he be looked down upon, would she laugh and tell Catriona who would in turn tell an amused Daniel in secret? He couldn't bear the thought of it when she suddenly tripped on the pavement, her foot stubbing a carefully hidden gap between two slabs of heavy concrete in the first remotely ungraceful movement that he had witnessed from her. He instinctively grabbed at her flailing body as she fell head first towards the ground, catching her by the waist and twisting her around into him. Her stomach pressed hard against his, her thin hips grating against his pelvis. She looked at him, a flicker of amusement dancing around her beautiful eyes. Her full lips regained their balance only centimeters away from his own, their breath mingling for the tiniest of heartbeats. He gasped inwardly and she giggled pushing herself back to her feet.

"i only tripped"

"i was just making sure you didn't hurt yourself....."

He suddenly found the perfect gap in conversation to flick a compliment in her direction, and in the split second that it took to cross his mind he knew that it was almost too late, it had to be spontaneous so he just said the first thing that entered his mind, it would be worse to dwell on it he reckoned....

"....you're much too pretty to allow any damage to you"

'DAMAGE'.....?!?!? What the fuck was that, who used that in a compliment, and 'PRETTY'?? He might as well have been talking about the blue finch in the back garden being chased by a rogue cat. If he could have done it without her noticing he would have punched himself in the gut. But she was staring at him with a funny look in her eyes.

"yer dead sweet ye know dat"

He swallowed in reflex at the intensity of her look, unable to hold her eyes for too long he scuffed his feet on the pavement, being careful not to trip himself up.

"yeah, do you want to go and get that ice cream?"

"not really, ye wanna come back to my gaff?"

There was that feeling in the pit of his stomach again, the deep heavy dread that weighed him down, physically forcing his body inwards upon itself that took all his strength to hold it at bay. He looked at her. Her mascara was perfectly weighted across her eyes, embellishing her best feature. She really was beautiful. Her nose was small and cute, positioned perfectly between her eyes, button like, the type of nose that when she was a child received an abnormal amount of playful tugs and rubs from proud family members.

He found himself nodding his head without even being aware that he had thought to do so. A voice screamed at him inside his head to turn back, go find Daniel, he'd know what to do, put it off, he had managed to get her to like him so he should back away, take a time out, gather his thoughts and figure out what to do next time, like wear normal clothes, gel his hair, fucking anything. But he didn't, instead allowing himself be dragged along behind her like an eager puppy bounding head first towards the wolves lair innocently unaware of the danger it was placing itself in.

Her apartment was nice, normal, and probably relatively small for her and both her parents, but they weren't here. It felt so exotic being in an apartment instead of a house which always felt like it belonged to somebody's parents. This place could just have easily belonged to her he imagined, and maybe it even did. He half hoped though that her parents would come home and they would be forced to watch television with them, or leave and get an ice cream, then he could act annoyed but equally be admirably indifferent so she would like him even more for wanting to spend time with her. She asked him did he want a glass of water and he found himself shaking his head and then opening his mouth to accommodate hers as she pushed him back against the fridge and slipped her velvety tongue inside his orifice and slid it against his teeth. He reacted barely in time and flipped his own tongue into action, bouncing against hers roughly. Something odd hit his molar and he struggled to figure out what it was, managing to push it against his cheek while maintaining his battle for supremacy with her increasingly violent tongue. It was chewing gum. But he wasn't chewing any. The sudden realisation that it was hers struck him at the same time as she pulled away from him.

"i just gotta go to de toilet'

"sure, i'll wait here"

"well yer not coming wit me"

There was a pause between them for a moment.

"ye don't wanna come wit me to de toilets do ye?"

"no of course not"

"good, i was jus checkin', some weirdos out der ye know"

He nodded with an assurance that he hoped gave out the impression that he knew exactly what she was talking about while also dispelling any lingering doubt she might have that he could possibly be one of those weird people. He probably nodded for far too long because she gave him a long hard look, and this time it wasn't the soft quizzical gaze like earlier that had melted his insufficient defences, but held a certain condescension wrapped around it. Just like he had expected earlier, but not now. He was chewing her gum and he spat it out reactively, then quickly retrieved it from across the kitchen floor and opened the bin lid to flick it in when a thought occurred to him.....

Did he find it sexy that she had 'given' him her gum? No he definitely did not, but that wasn't important....did she find it sexy that she had given it to him? Had she done so in a giving gesture to symbolize some form of closeness between them, now he could chew her gum and they had bonded, so if he got rid of it was it then a slight that she wouldn't recover from? He heard her coming back through the sitting room and he stood up making an immediate instinctive decision, the type that has the minimum of thought running through it, proclaimed by sportsmen to be the best type of decision and which you should always follow without hesitation.

"are ye chewin me gum?"

She had applied an extra coating to her make up quite masterfully, giving it a glowing sheen that screamed out healthy sexy female at him in big bright letters.

"eh, yeah, i think so"

"uh dat's gross, just spit it out into de bin or sumtin i'm not kissin ye again if yer still

chewin it"

He lifted the bin lid again cursing any article he'd ever read about professional footballers, liars the whole lot of them. She welcomed him over to the couch and he followed her dutifully. If he had a tail it would have been wagging he pondered. She sat down on the couch and flicked on the television, turning over the channels a few times before settling for some cartoons in Irish for some very odd reason. He noticed that his hands were beginning to sweat again and he closed his eyes begging them to stop, reasoning with them that it wasn't warm enough inside the room to justify releasing excess water from his body so therefore they should just stop. His hands didn't listen. He was sitting beside her awkwardly, unsure of how to position his body in a comfortable position that was both accessible to her and cool looking at the same time. She looked so elegant by contrast, her legs crossed one over the other with such disdain that it had to have been practiced over time. Her neck arched upwards from the seat of the couch spiraling succulently to the flowing tides of her hair. Her eyes beckoned him expectantly and all fluid suddenly flew from his mouth leaving it as dry as timber. She gave him a rueful smile and leaned in to him, her left hand drifting downwards onto his crotch. It took all of his energy to not jerk away as she did so but his body stiffened with tension and she must have felt it because she pressed her lips against his and stared deeply into his eyes. He felt like he could melt into her at that moment if he wasn't so nervous about trying to do the right thing. He desired nothing more than to curl into her and have her wrapped around him like a soft consuming blanket, her skin caressing his body all over, her lips against his, but her eyes welcoming to his, allowing him to drift deeply into their pools of green magic. It occurred to him that he could fall in love with this girl if she allowed him to. The kiss was much softer this time, less needy having bypassed the initial barrier that states hot desire must be evident in pure passion when two people who kiss each other are mutually attracted. The second time can be more patient, less exploratory and much more enjoyable. Sam felt as if honey was being poured seductively into his mouth and his tongue was swimming through a crystalline pool of sugar. Her lips sucked him towards her, pulling him onto her, her hands lifting up his jumper and slipping inside his shirt to slide along his skin. She dragged her own top towards her chest and then pushed against him. Shock waves raced through his entire frame as the skin on their stomach's humbly touched. For the first time in his life he felt like he was being sucked downwards into a well of suffocatingly beautiful moments. Everything that he touched seemed to be sculpted from a bed of pure perfection, each touch a surprising exploration of harmony.

The front door rang with a jolt and she pushed him off quickly, a look of fear twisting her features into frozen rigor mortis.

"fuck that's me ma"

Sam fell off the couch, guilty despite having achieved nothing more than a brief drift of his fingers across the flesh of her neck and belly. This thought suddenly occurred to him and he was immediately rueful, and then elated at having gotten onto the couch with her in the first place. He knew that Daniel would be jealous as Antoinette was far prettier than Catriona, not that he would admit as much. He realised that he hadn't thought about anything else apart from this girl for the last two hours which was very unlike him. The sound of teenage laughter breezed into the room. He knew that voice. Daniel bounded into the room and gave him a massive slap across the back, then cupped his hand over Sam's ear for secrecy.

"my god she gave me a blowjob"

Delight was etched across his face like a wood carving to never be removed for eternity. Sam kept his composure, wanting for all the world to leap into the air and scream out the joy of kissing Antoinette that he had just had the privilege to experience while also simultaneously desiring nothing more than to thump him for interrupting them. But all he could do was smile.

Scouting for Sausages

2012-02-06T07:25:00.000-08:00

## A proviso; always with the provisos, but in this age of social awareness, political correctness, SOPA and stupid bill proposals that threaten to enslave us creatively one can never be too careful, and I don't like unintentionally offending people. If I'm going to offend people I'd like to do it very purposefully. This story is fiction. It's not about 'me', it's about the imaginary 'I'....although if you go Freudian and into the ID and Ego and all that lark then maybe it is me. These things may have happened, but I have very few memories beyond Christmas this year so it's doubtful, probably why I forgive people so easily. ###

Nothing tastes better than a sausage cooked over a slow burning fire in tinfoil. Especially if you didn't cook it, got it free, and it was taboo. When I was unlucky enough to be sent off to the junior cub scouts they made sausages forbidden. Fascists, didn't they know that modern society was founded on sausages!!? Well, if it wasn't it should have been, tea builds empires and what is tea without sausages.

Getting sent to the scouts was I thought similar to being sent to Connaught. To hell or to Connaught was the saying back in the 1600's when the English and that charming Cromwell chap were gradually eradicating the Irish from anywhere good to live on the island. Connaught was the crap part of Ireland, with lots of rocks, an inclination of the locals to speak Gaelic and as a result of the selfish inconsiderate Brits, far too many moody Irish men without enough moody Irish women to pacify them. This is how I saw the cub scouts. When I said as much to my previously dear parents - I tried unsuccessfully to emancipate myself after this slave driven experience they put me through - they tried to fob with me off with some vague talk about social skills, outdoor activities and a learning experience. When this didn't work they tried to bribe me with hot chocolate, but because I was morally incorruptible, they eventually just did what any good dictator does, and sent me to my room.

So I found myself standing in a wet field, with wet shoes, wet socks, wet hair and a wet looking cub scout leader who had never even heard of the word entertainment let alone spelt it. There is nothing worse than being told to go and explore nature when it's pissing down rain, you're in an exposed field with 9 other kids who hate you as much as you despise them, and the wind is slapping against your backside like a spatula. We're hardly going to sit around a stream and sing songs together about how great Jesus is now are we. I think looking back that it was all part of a great big experiment by somebody who had read too much Orwell and thought they'd see how long it takes 10 pubescent boys to maim, kill and eat their droopy eyed scout leader.

After spending far too long unpacking a crap tent in gale force winds that I had very little interest in actually putting up, I decided to escape. I swear that leader was a masochistic Nazi in disguise and as a vague part of my extended family are Austrian, I was convinced he would be after me once it got dark and I was weak suffering from dysentery and malnutrition. So I went for a walk in the wilderness and decided against my better judgement that I would entertain myself like in the Famous Five Enid Blyton books before my unseemly demise. The possibility of drowning in a swamp was infinitely preferable to slowly wasting away on the meagre rations of dry brown soda bread and tinned peaches. You couldn't even make a sandwich with it, strawberries maybe, but peaches were just ridiculous. I think the scout leader had read too much S. Fitzgerald and was maybe trying to be an exotic explorer role model, as cover for his eventual maiming of us all. So I left the camp.

Three hours later I was lost. I shouldn't have been too surprised considering that I was 13 years old, had no forestry experience, no compass, the wrong gear - I was wearing my Christmas runners - and absolutely no clue where I actually was. All of Ireland begins to look the exact same once you leave Dublin, which is why directions are all based around pubs as landmarks, they serve as the main point of distinction in a sea of green. I did find one man who briefly appeared to be my saviour, until I realised that if it wasn't because we were the only two people standing opposite each other in a field for miles around I would have had no idea that he was actually talking to me. I had absolutely no clue what he was saying. I'm pretty sure he said horse, pub and the big smoke at some stage but that's about it. The Irish accent becomes pretty much unintelligible once you leave the capital. God bless MTV for saving our nation from cultural decline and giving us a proper accent. I dread to think that without Laguna Beach just what we would have, like, totally become. We might all sound like people from Clare. I shiver. So I gave him a gentle smile as I do nowadays to people trying to get my bank details for Concern - not today love, but glad you keep trying - and made my not so merry way somewhere else in the countryside that looked exactly the same as all the previous places. I had to resist the temptation to look behind to see if my country friend was following; last thing I wanted was for him to mistake my wary glances as friendly eye contact and next thing I know I have a unintelligible, rambling, probably drunk Irishman on my hands. What was he even doing out here in the middle of nowhere anyway??

It's amazing how quickly a young boys mind can become obsessed with death and it's possibilities. I found that the longer I starved myself to death on my very own pilgrimage to somewhere resembling modern society that the more obscure my thoughts became. Why are blackbirds black? Do they mean to kill me? Can they sense my weakness? If I stumble will they just eat my eyes? If they do eat my eyes will that kill me quickly? If I do get attacked by them should I just offer them my eyes and hope that will be enough for them to leave me alone?? I can live without my eyes. What else could I survive without. My nose. Don't need that. Ears. Useless. Do blackbirds eat ears, I would think that they're too rubbery to really enjoy. Like snails. Even the gradual realisation that it was crows not blackbirds that eat carrion, and by carrion it meant dead, and thus blackbirds were cute little family oriented birds who eat seeds and small worms didn't puncture my death related pessimism. I was sure to die out here in the wilderness. Why would there even be another soul out here for heavens sake. That man must have come out here to die, much like the elephants do in Africa, maybe I had stumbled into a culchie burial ground, in which case I would never be found. The only thing worse than a rugged landscape of slowly perishing country folk could be a travelling community family Christmas pageant. A scary thought. Just when I was about to sink to my knees, spread my arms out as a signal for all the wild creatures to come and consume my tender virginal flesh so that as least some of Gods creatures could survive this torrid place, I saw a sign. Smoke. There was life.

I'm pretty sure that I ran to this smoke signal. I can't fully remember all the details because as I have stated I was malnourished from 5 hours (including travel time this morning) without synthetic sugars, having used up so much energy walking that my body was beginning to devour itself, and I was so excited that my brain had a little overload, much like my inbred springer spaniel that had an aneurism because it's tail kept running away from it. Something had to give eventually and physics dictated that the tail simply wasn't going to get longer or closer no matter how hard the poor creature tried to bend her body. Doing so most likely cut off the blood supply to her brain. Which was what I was doing, contorting my body into strange shapes to run longer, faster, harder. Slap those branches out of the way. Ignore the shrills of birds chasing you. Colours. Greens. Browns. Yellows. Red, danger danger. Then I was in the clearing, panting, glad to be alive but hating that I couldn't breathe and wishing I had brought my inhaler this time. I didn't like having it in public, it made me feel like Darth Vader and I hated Star Wars, the idea of so many stars scared me. I liked my insular world of just me and the other 4billion people on the planet, I could deal with those odds. But adding stars and other worlds into the equation was too much to compute. How could one get a girl if you're competing with an 8 foot tall two headed warrior who builds space ships with his bare hands. Impossible. What could I say? -"hi, I like comics and drawing pictures of dragons and when I run too fast I need to stop and use an inhaler or else I may collapse into a coma. Please pick me over that cool foreign alien guy thanks". Not happening.

Entering the clearing was a slightly surreal experience, not unlike barging in on an alien species on a foreign planet I would imagine. All of the 5 heads turned and looked at me at once and stopped talking. They just stared. I stared back. Admittedly I did so because my eyes were blurry and I couldn't see from my exertions, but they might have taken it as a threat. Like gorillas, don't stare at them. Or was it do stare at them. Either way the heads separated from the one body and became five walking towards me. Very twilight zone. Then I could see clearly, and my heart stopped beating. For at least 4 seconds. Like hitting pause by mistake. It was my worst nightmare. They wore the same gaudy uniform as me. Only they had theirs almost covered with those silly colourful badges I was told to collect for doing tasks like building a fire, making a knot, using the stars for direction, silly things that I would have no use for in my real life of fast cars and proper, like, totally, English speaking company. They were like cub scouts but only older and with more hair on their faces. Lion scouts maybe they were called.

So that's how I came to get my sausages. My saviours turned out to be fellow scouts. From a different and much cooler company of course. And older. The other side of the city. They were so cool that they were allowed come camp without a group leader for one night out of three. I told them that I didn't want a leader so I'd come off to make my own scout group when I'd seen their smoke and thought that they might need a leader, and so I was going to volunteer myself. They acted like they believed me, which was nice of them. And then they gave me that life saving nectar. Those sausages, wrapped in tinfoil, stuck on the end of a forked branch - which nature makes just for these such occasions - and then cooked over the fire until they smell like pure delight.

On my return, one of the older scouts brought me back, the bastard, I think he just wanted to check out the competition and I pretended that I was happy to guide him there even though I pretty much followed him. I had a pocketful of these delightful round meats which were promptly removed from my person for the ruckus I had caused by running away. And I was made to eat oxtail soup instead. Why anybody even came up with the idea of eating soup made of something attached to a cows arse is beyond me. So I didn't eat it, instead I poured it out to poison some nature, lay down in my pitiful tent and waited to die in my sleep.

I awoke after having a dream thinking of that sexy pig from the muppets and salivating over her, imagine how many thick cut juicy sausages you could get from her rounded hips. Joy. Then I remembered that I was still in the shite tent in the middle of nowhere, with parents who obviously hated me, and the other boy in the tent had just farted. His fart smelled of oxtail soup. In that moment I had never loved childhood more.

## To anybody Irish who reads this, there won't be many, Irish people don't care much for their own unless they emigrate and do our form of colonialism, then I'm sorry if offence was caused, and I should have called Cromwell more of a bastard, but his reference was meant sarcastically. To anybody related to Cromwell.........well I can't print that.....##

Warped War Horse Rides The Wrong Way Round

2012-01-30T15:21:00.000-08:00

I think it's ok to critique big Hollywood films as they deserve it simply for being big Hollywood films and for not casting me or any of my friends in them....I usually adore SS, he has a remarkable touch with films, and so I was quite looking forward to seeing how he dealt with this story, I confess to not having seen the play or read the book, so that may validate my opinion as a first time user to the War Horse World or make it irrelevant. Either way I decided in a piqué of boredom to review said film after seeing it with some of the stunt and horse master people involved. This may be my only film review, it depends, as I may never work again afterwards, but if Spielberg sees this and is less than enamoured I intend to claim ignorance, feign indifference and then blame the first person who comments on this piece for hacking into my blog with cruel professionalism......and so, my review on 'War Horse'......

I find that the best films leave me thinking about something. Anything. It doesn't have to be profound, it can be as basic and primal such as replaying the mental image of the hot leading lady dancing and figuring out how best you could get her out of that corset. Or how beautifully it was shot and how it made those squalid ghetto streets of New York, Dublin, Buenos Aires, take your pick, look like a fairytale. Or what you'd do if you were as good looking as Channing Tatum and could dance his moves, or could take a smack in the nut sack like Daniel Craig and not have been prematurely neutered. But War Horse didn't do any of that. All it did was make me wish that bad films knew they were bad films and were cut an hour shorter. That would have been the best part about this film.

I am a massive Spielberg fan. Hell, anybody who's name is autocorrected in Apple Spell Check has to be respected. But apart from that, he is simply one of the greatest film makers to have ever existed. You can't argue with his work and track record, not least because people beg to give HIM money to make their films. But every now and again even the unfallible are proved mortal. War Horse may well be a box office success, because films about horses galloping through a hail of German bullets and bringing people together with the power of love for an animal aren't very prevalent nowadays and everybody loves a good animal man mate love story. But War Horse is basically just not very good.

The story essentially revolves around this young boy, who seems a little simple and too old to not be allowed join the army -he would have fit right into Full Metal Jacket- and his bond with his horse. The horse becomes his by default after his father buys it through pride rather than any fiscal responsibility. Maybe this was to be the most salient point of the film, a pointed look at how many in modern society over stretch themselves and live beyond their means. But no, this was ignored as the horse saves the day by helping till a field that looks perfectly ploughable. It should be to the seasoned farmer anyway. The problem is that there is no real bond with the horse, in fact this horse barely requires breaking in, it's better trained than many police Alsatians after 3 years within about 11 minutes. Of real time. That's fine, it's Disney, I'll go with that. But if that wasn't difficult to achieve then where is the conflict, the part where the boy and animal bond through their mutual respect and drive the story forward. Well there isn't any. The horse gets shipped off to war where it proves to be happy with just about anybody. I don't think I've seen any creature as universally socially popular since Bambi or the guy who wins the lottery and tells the entire pub the next round is on him. People just fawn over this horse, despite the fact he pretty much looks like all the other horses and there's a life or death war going on, people seem able to take the time to spot that he's got that something special. Even non horsey people. I have spent quite an unfeasibly lengthy time recently with horses, and they still generally look the same. But even if you can distinguish them, they all misbehave, not even the best trained ones are that smart and docile with everybody, especially not when there's a war going on around their heads. Not even Big Bird could be that calmly intelligent and he's a touch on the unaware side of things. Unless the horse is actually as simple as the boy and doesn't realise he's even in a war, and so he goes around loving everybody back unconditionally even when surrounded by death and loud noises and hard labour. So the basic crux of the movie, the love between this boy and this horse is irrelevant, and instead we are meant to root for the magic horse that travels europe, survives the war, and beats off tetanus. How the horse didn't get poisoning off filthy barbed wire cutting through his entire body is amazing enough, but after Liam Cunningham gave his trusted medical opinion that the horse was screwed, and then helped buy it for £100 without any medical treatment is pushing my suspension of disbelief. But then again, this horse did get more close ups looking knowing and pensive than all the actors from a period drama combined so he can't die. He's the hero.

The cinematography next, which got Oscar nominated, and I hate criticising such a respected DOP as he is incredible and I can't do an iota of what he does, but why did everything look like it was lit like a cartoon. The whole point of lighting such a film is to make it look like it's not lit. Maybe he was bored and just decided it was easier to bang a few 5-ks in front of everything, but the effect is that it all looks like he has banged a few 5-k lights in front of everything, apart from the final scene which only needed a Terrys Chocolate Orange or Bushmills logo to finish it off. Cheesy ain't the word. I was disappointed, I expected something more epic.

There are some positive points. It was directed by Spielberg, which is always cool, and the boys parents are very well played, but apart from that a lot of the acting is quite stiff, and the foreign accents sound as if they were learned in stage school, they're even worse than mine in Small Island. I will try and think of more positives but at the time of writing I simply wish I could get the three hours of my life back. I just pray that there isn't a sequel. Spielberg I still love you, but you may need to have a sit down with Mr. Nicolas Winding Refn for some pointers as even the greatest can lose their touch sometimes. The various horses who played the horse were good though, and the stunts and cavalry charges were quite epic, although having had an insider track I know there were a lot of horse scenes cut, and stunts that never made it which is disappointing. But I wanted to end on a positive note, so what else, oh, I learned a lot about horses. Which is always nice.

....................

I shall now drink myself into a stupor and await Mr. Winding Refns call to have me play opposite Ryan Gosling in his next film for my show of love for his talents. He is very talented. If anybody knows him they should tell him that. Also who calls their horse 'Joey', should it not be Mystique, Toscano, Diablo or something cool......

Into the Woods

2012-01-20T19:59:00.000-08:00

This is a little retrospective blog, as I'm in a retro mood lately and frustrated trying to re-jig my website. I have quite a few older projects which I just simply feel like posting as some things I haven't put up before and it's a new year and all that jazz.....

About 18months ago I shot and directed a music video for a very talented singer, Kellie Blaise, which we did in Ireland, in the woods in Howth where I grew up, as befits the song title 'into the woods', how very arty!....

The video featured some good friends of mine, actors and actresses such as my sister Niamh, Vinny, who was in Studs with me way back when, and Natalia Kostrvewa, who features in the horror film 'The Inside', which is due it's release later this year (but more of that another time), and the adorable Kayla Scanlan....as seen in the 'walking in the air' video.

The song is quite dark and shall we say quirky, and the idea evolved into that of a young girl following a small boy into the depths of a forest, where she gets lost and is accosted by a woodland nymph. The boy is one of her minions who has lead countless lost children/people into these woods where they are trapped in a limbo.....similar to hansel and gretal with the breadcrumbs, or the old age fairytales where the child is seduced and ends up having their soul bound for all eternity.....dark yes, but Stardust has a dark concept too where the stars get eaten, so at least in purgatory there is the possibility of escape....

As the witch/nymph leads the girl deeper into the forest she comes into contact with lost souls who have become creatures in a paralysed limbo. The witch plays with them, releasing them for a moment where they engage in a repetitive action like a cuckoo clock, and then stop again, paused in time as it were by her spell. This is the fate that will befall the little girl....

The little girl tries to fight against the evil witch but she calls all her minions to her in a reverie of worship, and, as the rules of a music video dictate, her voice over awes all those around her and she is all powerful and dominant. I did wonder about little Kayla, and the little boy Evan, who is the coolest kid, as they are young and surrounded by all these fruitcakes dressed in masks in a forest of smoke with a bizarre 'teddy bears picnic' style song going on which has 'odd' connotations if read a certain way, but kids watch a lot of disney so it was like going to the funfair for them I guess.........

The video was shot on the Sony Ex-1, which doesn't allow any interchanging of lenses unfortunately but gives a nice low light image, and the stills were shot on 800 stock, on the OM-2.

It's a very pretty video, and a gorgeous song, and I think it worked out quite well.....never quite knew what to do with it when it was finished and the stills and the video just drifted a little bit as sometimes happens with projects, but I think that the end product turned out well.

Here is the ORIGINAL version of the song/video:

I had intended on putting a photo book together telling the story through just stills but never got around to it. It was a tough little shoot, we used the Deer Park Hotel as a base, and shot in the forest behind it, but it was trek lugging a generator in and out as it got very muddy and rained, and for some reason we just attracted horse flies, which wasn't popular. The shoot took two days, cut in half for the children to get out earlier of course...

There are two versions of the song, one produced musically by Kevin Whyms, and one by Reggie Ashley, and I'm not sure which I prefer, but each give the song a completely different vibe.....

The make up was done by the incredibly talented Nadia Macari, and Eimear Ennis Graham was my gaffer that day, the wonderfully talented woman that she is. The styling was done by Kellie herself, along with the concept art...

There's a little story in the video, which I think makes it more interesting and visually I enjoyed shooting it.....

This is the alternate version of the song, same video, jazzier style, by Kevin Whyms...

A Poem For My Father

2012-01-16T16:43:00.000-08:00

I've been asked a few times recently about this poem that I wrote for my late father James Macken SC. I hadn't ever thought about posting it, and then listening to a song written by my friends in the band 'The Evora' recently made me think about it, and so I decided I would. I was then going to wait and post it on his anniversary on the 13th of March later this year, but sometimes things just hit you and you want to put things out there I guess.

This poem was written for my dad when he died of a brain tumour almost 5 years ago, and the girls at omgeoinmacken.com have been, what I can only describe as incredibly sweet and insightful by raising money for my birthday for a brain cancer foundation charity.

The poem has an odd cadence, in that the lines should run into each other, and this song doesn't exactly fit the rhythm, but it's a beautiful song by some very talented musicians. I find that grief comes in different waves, and people deal with it differently, but sometimes hearing a song or reading about somebody else's experiences can help. I recently read a story, in GQ of all things, which won their non fiction award, about a woman who's husband died in Iraq and it was very moving and made me think of my own father. But the beauty of her story was that he wrote her a letter before he died, in the event that he might, and in it he told her to go and achieve and attempt all the things she should and to not wallow in sadness but to embrace life and to cherish their memories, and that's a very important message.

Here is the poem, written for my father when he died:

Verse One

His slender hands pluck the dirt with measured strength

tossing bedraggled fragments to scatter in the wind around

Streaming fore and aft his face respectful, ready to relent

its eager course that harries wide-reaching under natures bounds.

Courteously acknowledging every healthily earned crevice and crease

with barely disguised admiration eclipsed in gentle sound

aware the same that bore him oceans across, seeking release

to threaten and consume with playful violence yet halted down

to its knees, at bay, with a tactful dexterity subdued

by his knowledge of its inner secrets carefully wrought

into an aura of calmness, a confidence daily renewed

by his own self belief, a trait that cannot be taught.

Peppered by a roaring anger, with strength in itself to blow

him across the Irish Sea with its power, but carefully caught

softened and moulded by the only cherished voice that knows

how to keep, soothe, temper and tame him, that only sought

to harness his talent of abundance and shape and caress

into a creative intelligence, of passionate defence

the map that guided him to unlimited heights of success

financial and emotional, but never at anothers expense

His lucky charm, his rock, his shelter, his soul,

the woman that kept him, for she made him whole.

Verse Two

'Red Sky in the Night' was his ever favourite phrase

and his eyes would sparkle in delight, life always amazed

Laughter burrows his skin in humour, at his own behest

met with a ferociously witty yet carefully measured riposte

A game to play along with, to challenge but never to best

as there was never a sole winner and nobody lost(e)

for that was the beauty, this awe in his presence

at a vast riveria of information spanning ages of time

a sea of words printed and spoken, always with reverence

drama, newsworthy, novel, fable, linguistic and rhyme

moulded and fleshed by intellectual pursuit of perfection

encouraged by diligent competition and masterful memory of lines

the courtroom his playhouse, the case his canvas, subsection

stroking in patterns victorious, yet never absent nor behind

a humanist, present, unselfish and always humble

observant and confident but cased in a tight circle of friends

loyal and caring, would never let go if you stumbled

charismatically woven from pillars of steel that would bend

around a penetrable soul for protection, to ease any heartache

with voice trembling like thunder in a maelstorm to mend,

assist and just be there, his self beyond any re-make

for he was a true shepard, and he was there to us, always to tend.

And this is the song by the Evora, on youtube, which I think helps with the tone of the poem. Or if not, is just a beautiful song in any case....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lurVWUTQGq8&context=C32aa5c4ADOEgsToPDskJM4q-Mkh0gr1ryG-4CeJZ2

Much love to you all and to those who have lost and are hurt I hope that you have beautiful memories always......

Handcuffed for Attention

2012-01-06T10:20:00.000-08:00

## A proviso: all my stories are written as fictional anecdotes, scenarios or observations, they are not intended to be offensive or representative of any specific view on my behalf. It's called fictional writing, but even so I have no intention of ever getting into politics. ##

I tilted my head to Mr. Burrows, cheerfully indicating him to carry on, that this situation at the pole suited me just fine. Always best to keep a strong sense of self importance no matter the scenario. My dad had told me this when the debt collector had called him up on the money they wrongly believed he owed the bank. Good advice that was hammered into me to be sure to use in every circumstance. My dad had stayed true to his convictions, both morally and physically after he went on 'a short student holiday to cell block 69'.
How could he be blamed for making an investment based on the profit from a different investment that had yet to be completed because it was waiting for the profits to develop it from an original investment which had stalled. Should he not be praised for being an eager capitalist?
Ireland needed people like him to keep it from reverting into a backward yuppie country with just two television channels and a strange guttural language nobody spoke but made for crap road signs. His misfortune was all because of the sudden crash and recession, which was because of the 'foreigners abroad'. This was an American crisis affecting a European one, how could he have foreseen it when even the Chinese hadn't. If he had then he wouldn't have made stupid investments to lose the money in the first place, obviously. Beside weren't we neutral so we were exempt from other countries problems??
I thought his arguments were very strong even though I didnt really understand any of it. Especially not the part of the imaginary money that only exists once somebody acknowledges its existence. Or that somebody decides that something is worth something that it might not actually be but is because they've decided it. Regardless of the confusion I admired his sense of self importance even as he had his sentence laid down to him because he maintained this sense of self importance in that it was anybody else's fault except his. Morally he couldn't be faulted my dad, he stuck to his guns. But back to the situation with me handcuffed to the pole.

It was like any other pole really, innocuous in the grand scheme of things. Had the weather turned out differently and not rained so heavily that the lads had had to seek shelter in the bushes where they found the handcuffs half buried in the dirt then this pole would have remained happily irrelevant. As it was it just happened that this pole was the closest one to the nearby shops and bus stop where the vast majority of our neighbours would congregate to do their mundane things to keep on living. Certainly not as important as our gang mentality aspirations to find a slow cat that we could test the power of an old firework with through it's rectal passage. When asked afterwards by harassed local police on behalf of the local old persons community committee who's idea this was to stick the firework up the cats arse, nobody could genuinely remember. They thought we were all lying of course, and as a result we all thought we were all lying. In actuality nobody had desperately wanted to do it, and had all quite liked that old trusting cat with the slight limp. The idea had just appeared by osmosis and everybody was doing it on tv these days so it basically made sense. On the bright side it livened up the bingo night with an excuse for a funeral gathering for the cat, everybody in Ireland loves to bond over a good solid funeral. A cat isn't the same as a dead person admittedly, it doesn't have the same extended family bonds beyond the immediate locality, but you'd be surprised how worked up people can get when they put their minds to wanting to be sad and grieving. But anyway, the pole.

Well basically, handcuffs have to be used or else what is the point of their existence. They simply become a metal ring without a purpose and having seen first hand what happens when something has no purpose, like money for instance - it just stagnates if left idle and so must be constantly moved from account to account to keep it working my dad told me - well we didn't want our new toy to be like that. So we used it immediately. I say 'we' when I mean the other boys I nominally hang around with when they are kind enough to let me. Pubescent teenagers are remarkably charitable towards their peers if just given the chance. Most are judged too quickly just because they rob a few things, cause a few scuffles or impregnate a few girls, when they are nice for the most part and people shouldn't be so judgemental. The bunch I hang around with are nice anyway, I'm lucky to know them. So what that they had left me handcuffed to the pole. It was only fair really as I do have a bigger house so I have to get some flak somewhere to even it all out, I'm just glad we had to sell the car for dad's legal bills or then they might have left me completely naked and not just from the waist down. I was glad for the shirt.

So there I was, handcuffed to this unfortunate pole, naked from the waist down after a quick scuffle which I had lost half heartedly. My dad always said that one must be a good sport with other boys and not take anything too personally, so I'm okay with them removing my trousers, underwear, socks and shoes, (I was glad they took the socks and shoes or else I would have looked really ridiculous actually), and throwing them into the trees. It means that I can get them back from up there eventually and they are close by which is handy. So I was the first 'volunteer' to test out the handcuffs, it is a badge of honour to be the first in any situation, and how can I blame them for not realising what I had tried to point out, that there was no key. I really must start raising my voice because people just don't seem to hear me apparently even in normal conversations and that's not conducive to good communication, it gets you mistakenly ignored. They had in fairness looked quite guilty when they had eventually realised it, I'm pretty sure somebody had looked at his feet in remorse, and somebody else did make a half decent attempt with a stick to get my underwear off the tree. How can I blame him for not wanting to climb up as he might hurt himself if he fell and nobody wants that. It was my own fault for wearing underwear in the first place to be honest and I'd hate to feel guilty if he had fallen so I'm glad they listened when I told them it was fine I'd do it.

So it was that I nodded to Mr. Burrows to keep walking as I knew they would be back soon with a locksmith to release me. I had told them before they walked off slowly, tired as they were from their exertions with me, that the cuffs were far too tight and were cutting off the blood supply to my hands and I know that they wouldn't want that. I shouldn't have struggled half as much really then they wouldn't have been too tired to walk faster. It takes longer than an hour to order even a coffee these days I remember my dad saying so he would always have them pre-ordered the day before to make sure it was ready precisely when he wanted it. If you're going to pay for something make sure it's the best he'd say, so I'm sure the boys were just getting the very best locksmith possibly available. I said I'd pay for it in any case, only fair seeing as it is me he will have to release, they shouldn't have to take the financial burden on my behalf. I did feel a little ridiculous in just my shirt and nothing lower down I must admit, but my dad used to say that a good looking woman could pull off just wearing a potato sack to a party and still look good. I don't think thats entirely relevant here as I doubt Mr. Burrows would walk away in embarrassment if I was wearing a full potato sack and I don't have breasts to enhance the potato sack/shirt part but it's a similar concept.

So that's how this pole became famous in my area anyway, far beyond the normal scope allocated to standard telephone poles in my locality. I still haven't grasped the full meaning of the pole oriented jokes that have gone around, this pole definitely wasn't smaller than usual as they make them all standard in the factory I assume, and why I would want to get any girl up on my pole after my experience with it is beyond me. But as my dad always said, it's better to be part of something then not involved at all and so I'm just happy to be the subject of local conversation. Even if people do look at me oddly sometimes I know they're not judging me, but are secretly jealous that so many people talk about me. I'm actually very popular if popularity is measured by how many people say things about you behind your back. Almost as popular as my dad in the newspapers these days. I'll remember to say that to him next time I see him and explain how I've followed all his great advice. I know he'll be very proud that I lasted so long without peeing publicly before the firemen rescued me later that evening, for the record it was just once and I missed that man's shoes entirely, he stood in a separate puddle. Anyhow it wasn't the lads fault that there was a repeat of 'father ted' on the television, the show is about religion and God after all and we Irish are a very religious race so they had to watch it, blasphemous not to. So I don't blame them that they forgot about me, probably my fault anyway, I should have been more memorable.

## no animals were harmed in the creation of this story, even for the inevitable research purposes required. And Ireland is still a neutral country suffering in the hands of inept financial morons, but I would never state that out loud. Finally, the pole remains in mint condition and no damage occurred to its personage so the council have no cause for concern. ##

An interesting person to read....

2012-01-04T08:35:00.000-08:00

I had meant to post this before, about two of my favourite people's blogs and writings to read....the comedian Carol Tobin, and effervescent writer of all things strange and warbling, Dylan Townsend, both very talented and slightly out there in the best possible way. I blame Carol for anything offensive that I write, meaning that you read her work if you're that way inclined. I blame Dylan for making me think more about life, the universe, how the world we live affects us and we it, and just generally making me think more......

So if you need something else to read, to unwind after something offensive, perhaps read Carol, then read Dylan, and find something in their works if you can, two very talented people who should get more exposure, and I hope that some of their brilliance rubs off on me as I follow tediously in their slipstream..

http://caroltobin.com/

Erstwhile comedienne with a penchant for the extreme and wonderfullly offensive....never ask to hear a story about a horse.....

http://www.dylantownsend.com/

Fluently soaring writer about many and more wonderful things, poetry, music, economy, surfing, people and just living......don't tell him I sent you.

A Plane of Sexuality

2012-01-03T17:28:00.000-08:00

## This story is not meant to offend anybody, and is published in the original format. I don't want to have explain it anymore, in fact there is an interesting analysis of it from a reader at the bottom of the story. The story has already been copied and reposted so to have taken it down was clearly an exercise in futility which is why I have simply re-posted it. I was quite fascinated by the debate and discussion taking it down promoted, which simultaneously reinforced both the negative and positive aspects of twitter and social media, which i referenced in my first blog. Again it's just a story, criticise the writing if you want, and/or how perhaps the points or references I was making haven't come across, or how elements of identity have been confused, but don't accuse me of bigotry, if one can't mock or insult aspects of life then whats's the point. It's just a story. ##

## A proviso: all my stories are written as fictional anecdotes, scenarios or observations, they are not intended to be offensive or representative of any specific view on my behalf. It's called fictional writing, but even so I have no intention of ever getting into politics. ##

LIKE ALL POSITIVE MINDED OPTIMISTS, I approach life with a glass pretty much full mentality. I console myself in all negative situations with the caveat that at least I'm not dead. I always think the worst thing would be to simply no longer exist. No more. Gone. I don't see how that can be beaten. Except perhaps when it comes to airports, and traveling on dodgy airlines. Then I can almost see the basic appeal of non existence. These places hurt me emotionally.

There was apparently a time when working on an airplane was a badge of honour, like becoming a priest in a family from Cork, or being a Texan fighting for freedom, democracy and all things capitalist. Honour and prestige. That was the lot of the air hostess. I think that might have just been one fucking brilliantly worked advertising campaign, like Christmas. Working in an airport, and specifically as a hostess, must be a ground hog day of mind numbing incessantly rotating shifts of boredom. And that's just the thinking about it part. Which is why I've always tried to be nice to these type of people, the same way I donate 50cent to the odd homeless tramp and feel great about myself for about 4 days. I try to give what little of myself I'm willing to share back.

A smiling face of beaming joy thus peers down at me in my tiny seat made for a tiny doll with a tiny body. I respond as I have pre-programmed my social self to, with grace and good manners to beguile those who are lucky enough to be engaged. Yes I'm a narcissistic fucker. But I'm caught with my pants down as it were. This face belongs to that social anomaly, the gay air hostess. The gay air hostess is another beast entirely separate from real life, it's emasculated, yet bizarrely has a position of power in that this creature, clearly wishing it was a female getting a good ride from behind, can tell bigger more ostensibly male types what to do. And they do it. It's the only time in a man's stolid life when he will without question - when one is cramped in a confined space like a packet of abandoned smarties you don't really feel like you can stand up to a brazen sweet smelling white washed creation. It's like you lose any sense of authority, and become a meek thing that just wants to get out and away from this cage of humiliation as soon as possible, and then pretend like being ordered around by a sashaying peacock never actually happened. If nobody saw then therefore it didn't. I digress. This stretched almost clinical smile was close enough to lick my nose and I've been staring into space dreaming. If it's misinterpreted it's like a bad slo-mo scene from 'lady and the tramp'.

"I am so, so, so sorry darling but you have to buckle up that seatey seat belt before we go, go, go anywhere, ho-kay!?!!". Three times for emphasis to morons I always say. I nod self consciously and hope that It will go away. It doesn't, staring at me with all the benign benevolence of a tumour. "Thank you! Now keep that buckey buckle on, on, on, a tight buckle is a happy buckle I always say!!". The innuendo is so blatant it could be pulled out of Its pants and slapped against my face. I nod again, far too vigorously and thank the lord my sweaty palms could clip the buckle without having It reach across my lap. If that happened I might just hold my breath until I passed out, much more appealing.

The flight begins to take off, or begins to rumble down the runway under the auspices of eventually taking off, during which time we passengers must simply sit as inoffensively as possible and try to not draw attention. I inevitably fail. "Ooooh I'm afraid that all moby mobiles must be turned off, off, off there's a goo-ood man". It's like I'm a small dog It's that close to patting my head. Or having me lick peanut butter off It's balls. I then make the foolish mistake of engaging with It. "I don't understand how my little mobile phone can possibly affect a planes sophisticated radar system". I babble because I am nervous and want It to leave me alone. "Its never too 'little' to make a difference sir". I wince as the semi senile old lady next to me looks over, I'm guilty by association.

I have no choice but to continue, even though my body screams at me to pull out, back away, reject and eject, mayday mayday!! I clearly continue, a masochist stumbling over my words. "I doubt Vodafone have sold me technology capable of interference for £50. Surely if it worked they could knock out the North Korean air force with a few well placed Nokia's and be done with it". I hate myself right now. Boy George's doppelgänger gives me the gayest smile I've ever seen in my up to now quite happy life. "Sir we shouldn't jokey joke about these things, but you are very funny, you funster you". I'm being flirted with in the worst possible way, by being patronised. I may as well have begged to suck Its cock in the back toilet as a favour to my dying ego. Then it got worse. The tone became serious. "But all jesting aside sir, you'll have to do what I tell you and turn off the phone or else I'll have to take it from your person". I have just been chastised by the least masculine figurine I have ever even seen. I blush a bright red and mumble something about democracy whilst I hurriedly attempt to switch off the handset as It looks down from above me like some sort of Demi-god to a patently unsuitable worshipper. Finished my task I look up for acceptance for some obscurely horrific reason and I'm rewarded. "Thank YOU sir". And It pats me on the arm. PATS ME. Then saunters off with a wiggle of a well fondled fat arse. I can't move, my body won't obey me because it hates what I've become. You are a stranger to me it says. The semi senile old woman who smells of soap and socks looks at me, and smirks. I wish I was dead I think, and finally I understand, there are worse things than death. It's called living homophobic purgatory.

I feign sleep for the entire journey, anything to avoid eye contact with my queer tormentor, even when It strokes my arm to offer me what must be a drugged pre poured glass of juice. I stiffen but don't react, doing a fake sleep mumble. It's the hardest fucking non sleep I ever do. And you thought I was going to give out about the baggage handlers losing my life affectingly important bag or the potential public molestation at security. Nope, this was much worse. The flight with the gay air hostess, there has to be an AA group for sufferers surely, if not I will be opening one soon. And he grabbed my bum on the way out.

Below is an interesting analysis of the story: take it as you will. Or not.

http://fourheartclover.blogspot.com/

A woman on the tube

2011-12-20T15:24:00.000-08:00

I saw a woman on the tube today.
She composed herself a moment
and I paid her no attention
as I listened to my music.

She stood there,
at my shoulder,
her body trembling.
I finally looked up,
listened,
gave her a pound without touching her fingers.

Then she moved on,
her slender old frame trembling.

Some people smirked at her and
she turned into the door,
proudly hiding her tears.
I wanted to help
that proud frail failed woman,
to carry her dignity back to her.

The train stopped and
I cried out in my mind at her,
wait, talk to me, tell me what's happened,
maybe I can help and heal us both.

The doors opened,
she merged into the faceless crowd.
I did nothing.

I thought about her a moment longer
then went home
to consider what to have for my tea.

Walking in the Air

2011-12-18T11:30:00.000-08:00

Had hoped to post this a little sooner, but various external variables prevented it happening, which can be attributed to laziness but shall not be....myself and Greg French, of the band The Brilliant Things, which have just had their first single released in Ireland, 'something to say', and ended up being playlisted on BBC radio2 and had Graham Norton raving, grew up together of sorts in Wexford back in the day. To be exact, he lived there, and I visited my granny up the lane and hung out on his fathers hay bales and chased cows (neither are euphemisms). Greg, and his fiance Marie, the exquisite singer from the band asked me to direct a video for them for their version of the song Walking in the Air, which I happen to think is a stunning version and I happily said yes. Mainly because I had nothing better to do and it gave me an excuse to work with Emmett Scanlan's beautiful daughter Kayla, who surely must be destined for greatness, the child is wonderful.

The idea was something very simple to not take away from what I figured was the epic soaring nature of the song, and so I thought just Kayla walking through the streets alone at night would bring something different, and the child holds the camera so well and with such verve that she could pull it off. The idea was meant to culminate with her ending up on the same bench she awakens from, but the timing didnt quite work and because it was 6am when we shot, and cold, there was only so many times we could keep at it. The girl is 9 years old after all. So in the edit I had to cut it down or risk making a 5minute video which was just too long.

The result is below. I'm very proud of it, being all one shot, and I think it compliments the song nicely, and has a warm soulful Christmas feel to it. It's open to interpretation a little, but is essentially simple. Simplicity works best I believe. Most of the time.
Emmett, a long time friend of mine, who many know as Brendan Brady from Hollyoaks, and will know as Charlie Casanova in the film of the same name which I also shot, has a lovely rapport with Kayla, and he is an exceptional father, the two are very cute together. Makes me proud of him.

The video was shot on the canon 5-d, on a 50mm 1.4 prime Nikon lens, and even though it was steadycam, the focus was a bitch cos the focus rack wasnt working so I had to manually focus, as well as operating, and because the 5-d is so light, the weights wouldnt hold so it was a struggle, not how the steadycam should be, so it takes away from some of the smoothness. I shot it on 20mm also, and the result is obviously much more clean and smooth, but it took away from the intimacy of the video and from Kayla, which is the focus, her features and her emotion is what the video is all about really.
Kudos to Marie for singing a beautiful version of the song, and to Greg for being a legend. And to people on South William st at 6am on a saturday for leaving us alone when they should. I say that with absolute sarcasm......

And of course, below, on youtube, is the video, so Happy Christmas, and hope you enjoy it, and it brings you some pleausure....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UjuZLecRb5s

Another Day My Friend

2011-12-05T11:36:00.000-08:00

Sitting on the bus,

he sat across.

Momentarily he weighed me,

then ignored me.

Then she sat down.

I had noticed her,

but I was minding my own business

through not noticing.

Her thick thighs rubbed,

her shoes click clacking in time,

I looked at her and smiled,

she blushed.

I noticed him scowling

through his solid frame.

Another day my friend and we might have been friends,

now we are rivals.

Another day my friend and we might have fought,

now we sit stoic.

Another day my friend and

I wouldn't have forced bile back down my throat

when you stood up and

held my breath until you got off the car.

She ignored me then.

A footnote to the Day

2011-12-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

This first blog that I am rudely attempting amidst the banal mocking pageantry of pre Christmas exploitation is going to be on the subject of what my blogs are going to be actually about: thus, everything and nothing.

I must admit that I initially viewed the social media entrapment, and the proliferation of blogs as mundane, ridiculous and frankly absurdly egotistical. Now however I opine that it is something quite deliciously intriguing, if only because I have now fallen foul of this dark sided engagement so to suggest otherwise would be hypocritical.

I discovered a quite wonderful book when wandering through the streets of Dublin with little to do last week by the author and photographer Gary Coyle called 'Death. In Dun Laoghaire', and if Gary does happen to stumble across this blog over the next extended period then he will notice that I am about to blatantly alleviate him of part of his creative idea.

http://www.garycoyle.ie/

I am being brazen in this because I believe that art, ideas and expression has it's origins in many places, not least through the inspiration from prior works, and that the age old adage of the highest compliment being paid to plagiarism, or rather flattery through imitation, certainly has merit. To surmise, I am going to embark on small little photo and writing projects that look at and discover aspects of my own memories, childhood, teenage and otherwise, which I'm sure will be more cathartic for me than interesting to anybody else, but to misquote somebody whom I can't quite remember; art/film/storytelling should fundamentally be for the creator to enjoy, and if other people find enjoyment within that, then wonderful, if not, well, I guess that's the beauty of the blog, it doesn't matter. Or does it? I don't know yet, maybe I will someday.

As a footnote, I realise that by creating this blog I am opening myself up to a litany of abuse, mainly from my best friends believe it or not, and I am ready, willing and entirely prepared to stick up for myself. Besides I voted for Fianna Fail in the last election and I would consider myself a Democrat without knowing why. So there.