Dromineer, December 2007

Dromineer, December 2007

I

A winter storm has thatched the east shore of Lough Derg
In the traditional manner, by breaking
All last year’s dead reeds across the knee of the wind,
Then waves – chop-chop – chivvy ten thousand tons of them
Across the lake and into position
Interlocked along seventy miles of shore.

Today, the obsessive-compulsive waves have
Calmed down a bit, but
Still fiddle with it every few seconds
Like Christo adjusting the silk hem of an island,
Unable to drag himself away.
Like a writer at Christmas, poking a poem
Trying to enjoy the break
Unable to enjoy the break
Trying to enjoy the break
From writing.

II

The sun makes a grudging appearance
For one minute, to two shivering fans
Who’ve been standing on the concrete jetty in the rain.
“That’ll have ta do ye.”
It ducks back behind the zinc clouds
And sinks fast below the black hills.

“Fuck this, I’m off back to Australia,”
Mumbles one of the fans, or the sun.

It’s hard to tell over the
Splash of the lake waves, the
Crash of the lakeside
Property prices, the
Crying of developers and birds.

(Julian Gough, Tipperary, 2007.) 

Pornography and Literature

(OK, this one is going to be as short and snappy as a stepped-on daschund...)

I finally finished editing my porn film at seven o'clock this morning, having worked on it all night without a break. Which was great, except the deadline for delivery of the finished edit had been midnight...

But hey, this is a Berlin  porn festival! Transgression is where it is at. BREAK that rule. SPANK that buttock. OK,  DON'T spank that buttock...Deadline? What deadline? It turned out several other film-makers had missed it too.  A couple of phonecalls, and a drop had been arranged. All was well. Then, just trying to output a finished edit took all day (looooong technical story), and I missed two more deadlines. A new record! I am the champion! I finally handed the tape over to Gaia outside Kotbusser Tor U-Bahn station, near midnight, in a scene gloriously reminiscent of any spy film you've ever seen set in Berlin. There had been a lot of urgent phonecalls, changing trains, running up steps, searching the darkness for someone in a specific outfit... then the hurried handover, and away she rushed to put tomorrow's programme together...

So my little film will be shown tomorrow (well, later today...), Friday 26th of October, around 6.15pm, in the Kant Kino 1, on Kant Strasse, as part of Cum2Cut's Kurtzfilmprogramm. It's called The Last Porn Film, it's five minutes long, and I'll tell you more later. All part of the big Berlin Porn Film Festival.

I am stunned and gutted that I'll miss the screening, but it coincides with my reading in Loughrea at the Baffle festival. I console myself with the thought that missing the Berlin festival screening of my porn debut because I'm in Ireland reading from Jude: Level 1 at a distinguished and eccentric literary festival at least shows that I'm wasting my days in interesting ways.

Is that the time? Bed... 

Off to Baffle in Loughrea (and shoot porn in Berlin).

On Friday, October 26th, 2007, I'll be reading at the Baffle literary festival in Loughrea, Co. Galway, Ireland. Baffle (BOWES' ACADEMIC FELLOWSHIP AND FRATERNITY OF LITERARY ESOTERICS) was formed in Bowes-Kennedy pub in Loughrea, back in 1984. The pub is no more, but Baffle, like the universe, continues to expand.

The annual festival is an offshoot of Baffle's regular, year-round, pub-based poetry slam, which has generated five books of poetry.

I'm greatly looking forward to it, and will be wearing a clean shirt especially for the occasion.

Meanwhile, I went out last night, to Club Velvet on Warschauer Strasse. As my friends all know, I hate going out, and never, ever do, because if you go out you have adventures, and things happen, and you don't get any writing done for a week, and I'M BUSY, and I have to wash my hair, and where would world literature be if Shakespeare went out every night, eh?

Sure enough, after about ten minutes I found myself talking to the delightful Tatiana Bazzichelli and the utterly charming Gaia Novati of cum2cut, and next thing I knew, I was signing up to direct an amateur porn film. Bloody typical.

I have four days to shoot and edit a five minute film, and if I do get it done in time, it'll be shown as part of the second Porn Film Festival Berlin. The festival is a very Berlin mixture of art, film, dancing, theory, furrow-browed lectures and dirty sex.

As of now, though I have a camera, I've no cast, no crew, no script, no time, and I can't remember how to use Final Cut Pro. I have, however, shot some deeply erotic footage of the little finger on a woman's right hand. You've got to start somewhere. (Thanks, Anca, for signing the release form!).

Meanwhile, if anyone has any friends in Berlin who want to be kinky indie film stars, or can edit on Final Cut Pro, tell them to mail me in the next three days...

I've had some ideas for it, but the safest thing to say is that it is unlikely to be a normal porn film.

I'll keep you informed.

Author returns, alive, from the Dromineer Literary Festival!

Well, I'm back in Berlin after six days in Ireland. Verrrrrry tired... But happy.

The excuse for the trip was an invitation to read at the Dromineer Literary Festival, on the shore of Lough Derg, in  the heart of Tipperary, and therefore Ireland, and thus the universe. The festival was great, though at several points I wasn't sure if I'd survive it. I spent a good chunk of my childhood only a few miles away from Dromineer, and "The Orphan and the Mob", which I planned to read, is set just up the road and (with its pissed-off priests, pissed-on politicians, rampaging farmers, murderous orphans and burning orphanages) does not perhaps project the image of Tipperary of which Fáilte Ireland approves.

It turned out I was reading alongside Andrew Nugent, a white-haired monk of the order of St Benedict, and Prior at Glenstal Abbey.I wasn't quite sure how a seventy-something senior monk would react to the brutal deaths by coat-hook, boiling lead etc, of the Brothers of Jesus Christ Almighty. But it turned out he had been a trial lawyer before he was a monk, and he writes murder mysteries full of savage killings, so he was fine about it.

We read to over a hundred people (they had to get the emergency chairs out of storage, and wipe the dust off them, always a good sign). I read "The Orphan and the Mob", and it went down... No, I shan't drag out the suspense. It went down REALLY well. The audience got all the jokes and local references, and laughed even more than the audience at Charleston (in distant Sussex, far from the centre of the universe) the previous weekend. It was an advantage that most of those listening in Dromineer were familiar with, say,  Ardcroney, and had sampled its many wonders and delights. So a mention of it wasn't just a name; it summonsed in them beatific visions of the petrol station, the graveyard, the grass growing on the roof of Mick Reddan's house, and that huge rough cylindrical stone that cows scratch against (in the field at the bottom of the hill on the Nenagh side of Ardcrony)...

Great Q&A session afterwards too. Energetic, slightly terrifying, and thus enjoyable. It got off to a fine start when a man in a tweed jacket stood up and said that, as a Cloughjordan farmer, he felt he had to ask what I had against Cloughjordan farmers. I said I'd nothing against them, and that I thought they came out of the story particularly well. Didn't I describe them as sophisticated, and into Radiohead? It was hardly my fault they were beaten to death by orphans.

(Later, in the bar, a woman leaned over and whispered "Sure, that man isn't a Cloughjordan farmer at all. He's a Borrisokane farmer." )

 
 
Afterwards, I signed a reassuringly large number of books. One of the last to come up was a giant red-faced priest, who introduced himself by saying "I am a great admirer, a GREAT admirer, of Eamonn DeValera... and I am the  Priest for Puckane Parish... and I must say..." He leaned in closer, till our noses were nearly touching... "I enjoyed myself enormously! That was marvellous stuff! We're proud of you! Keep it up!"

I signed Father Slattery's book with a trembling hand. A mighty man. His brother, Martin "Speedy" Slattery used to teach me (though what subject I cannot now recall, as I was paying no attention at the time). Education was a simpler business back then. He would hit me with a hurley, and I would threaten to take him to the European Court of Human Rights. Ah, those were the days.