I was clearing out my study and came across some old head-shots. Have a look to the left here. Finding the shots made me sit down and take stock. When I first got my literary agent she gave me some advice. Do nothing but write for the next couple of years, she said. It was good advice because I was one of those creatives in London who did everything. I trained in Dance and Drama, I choreographed my own work using text and movement, I directed and I acted in straight Shakespearian plays. And the truth is, unless I had narrowed that workload down I would never have got down to writing the plays I've written (and poems and prose - you see, I just can't stop myself...). But now I'm beginning to miss both dance - and acting. Dance, because it is the most beautiful way to keep fit and speak without words and acting because I miss building a role. I don't miss the stage-fright and I don't miss the come-down after a show. I do miss the camaraderie and collaborative aspects of the work. I don't miss directing as, in a way, writing is a form of directing and choreographing - with words. So I've decided to make a slow and quiet return to what I miss. I think if something is in you you have to set it free - so to speak. So, I'm going to hunt down a leotard from somewhere and get myself back into shape. As I'll be in London much of July I will spend some of it at the back row of some Graham technique classes somewhere, and may even attend some method-acting refresher class. As the great Oprah Winfrey once said, 'you gotta live your best life'. Will keep you posted!
A new poem from me in response to the proposal to build on 98 acres of land surrounding Cuchulainn's Castle, Dundalk. It is written from the point of view of Laeg, Cuchulainn's companion and charioteer. The Folly Out from Tara, the widest road leads to a mount from where the sea can be seen beneath Mournes and Cooleys, at the edge of Ulster. This is Delga. Cú is needed for a battle today. Something about a bull and a mad queen from the West – who it seems is a friend of Ferdia. Láeg is here to deliver this troubling news. He sits in the centre of the mount, waiting for Cú to come from his shave and wash, thinks about which horses to take, for one is lame, when he is possessed by a strange fit. It is so black and dense, he thinks even a warp-spasm, the Ríastrad, could not unloose it. He sees the future: a conquest that causes his people to hide in the earth like moles, the building of a fortress around this place. The image burns in his mind the...
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