Thursday, February 24, 2005
Theatre Review: January 10, 1610: Heaven abolished
Review of Rough Magic's The Life of Galileo, by Bertoldt Brecht, currently playing at Project Arts Centre, Dublin.
The title of this post refers to the date when Galileo Galilei, physicist, mathematician and astronomer, spots the moons of Jupiter through his new telescope. Their presence, and his subsequent discovery that Venus waxes and wanes like the moon, proved to Galileo and his followers that Copernicus’ theories about the universe were right, and that the earth revolves around the sun.
Under Lynn Parker’s direction, Rough Magic’s cast play out the political impact of this discovery in Brecht’s series of dialogues between Galileo, the central force of the play, and the bodies revolving round him. The Church, businessmen, politicians, his students, his religious daughter, all present conflicting views and needs to Galileo, that he must balance alongside his hypotheses as delicately as the universe itself, if he is to survive with his discoveries intact.
On a round set, segmented like a compass, canny Venetian and Florentine businessmen appear disinterested in theology, hoping Galileo can go back to inventing looms and pumps and compasses that shunt progress along. The church princes who dabble in science beg him to keep schtum, concerned his discoveries will reduce humanity to despair. What point is there to suffering and toil if man is not the centre of the universe, one of them asks Galileo? What indeed! His students thirst for knowledge and truth, and see political compromise as a betrayal of science. His daughter hopes to draw him back to her Catholic faith. The revolutionary set, represented by a group of street performers, use Galileo’s egalitarianist tendencies and his ideas to promote liberty, equality, and fraternity amongst the peasants of the Campagna.
Galileo, a man addicted to knowledge, fine wine and good food, cannot play the political game at this level of intensity. His outspoken views force his good friend and fellow scientist, Pope Urban VII, to bow to the pressure, and his arrogance brings the Inquisition on his head. Galileo has ‘the instruments’ shown to him. There is no need to use them: fear of torture makes him recant his theories. His toppling reverberates across Europe, and other Catholic scientists begin to self-censor. The New Age falters: Galileo retires to secluded house arrest, where his work is supervised and locked away each night by smug, middle-ranking Church officials.
The play is intellectually relentless, the formal dialogues between Galileo and the other characters move the audience through an extensive examination of the role of science in society.
When finally, Galileo has his theories smuggled out of Catholic Italy to Protestant Holland where they will be welcomed, his victory is Pyrrhic. He had an opportunity to sacrifice himself to further the attainment of individual freedom, but his fear of ‘the instruments’ prevented him from taking that step. At the time, he rationalised his cowardice by claiming “Unhappy the country that has need of heroes”. After an extended period of reflection, he concludes that the only goal of science is the welfare of man, and in subjugating what he knows to be true to shore up the hierarchical power structures of Catholic society, he has failed. The Church itself finally acknowledged this by pardoning Galileo in 1992. I kid you not!
Shortly before his death, Arthur Miller asked: “How many times do we have to indulge the same idiocies for which we must later be ashamed?”
Brecht wrote The Life of Gallileo in Santa Monica, California in the ‘forties, while Oppenheimer and his colleagues busied themselves just a little ways up the road. Brecht himself was ‘shown the instruments’ by the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities, and recanted his own theories. He fled for Europe next day, where he ended his career under the watchful eye of the East German Stasi.
Brecht’s epic theatre asks the audience to engage with it on an intellectual level. There is no room for empathy with the characters. Sitting in Project Arts Centre last night, we smiled knowingly at references to seventeenth century idiocies, reminded of the current rise of Creationism, of those who are being ‘shown the instruments’ in Guantanamo Bay and Iraq, of individuals such as Aung Sung Suu Kyi, locked away in seclusion by smug, middle-ranking officials.
Two things struck me as particularly interesting. The first was the role of business in the play. As far as the merchants and mill owners of Italy were concerned, Gallileo could do what he liked so long as his innovations made them money. A mill owner even offers to smuggle him into the Venetian Republic, away from the influence of the Inquisition, and it is only Galileo’s arrogance that loses him this opportunity to escape.
The second was the pertinence of the play to the great intellectual struggle underway in the USA at present. In a society created to provide freedom from religious persecution, public opinion is being increasingly influenced by groups and individuals whose religious intolerance is trying to suppress homosexuality and the works of Charles Darwin.
These two issues raised a question I hadn't thought of before.
To what extent does modern business have a role in this debate? Diversity management is the new buzzword in European business circles, but it has been kicking around American corporations a lot longer. Is it contributing to the debate? Or is it sitting on the fence like it did with Galileo?
The title of this post refers to the date when Galileo Galilei, physicist, mathematician and astronomer, spots the moons of Jupiter through his new telescope. Their presence, and his subsequent discovery that Venus waxes and wanes like the moon, proved to Galileo and his followers that Copernicus’ theories about the universe were right, and that the earth revolves around the sun.
Under Lynn Parker’s direction, Rough Magic’s cast play out the political impact of this discovery in Brecht’s series of dialogues between Galileo, the central force of the play, and the bodies revolving round him. The Church, businessmen, politicians, his students, his religious daughter, all present conflicting views and needs to Galileo, that he must balance alongside his hypotheses as delicately as the universe itself, if he is to survive with his discoveries intact.
On a round set, segmented like a compass, canny Venetian and Florentine businessmen appear disinterested in theology, hoping Galileo can go back to inventing looms and pumps and compasses that shunt progress along. The church princes who dabble in science beg him to keep schtum, concerned his discoveries will reduce humanity to despair. What point is there to suffering and toil if man is not the centre of the universe, one of them asks Galileo? What indeed! His students thirst for knowledge and truth, and see political compromise as a betrayal of science. His daughter hopes to draw him back to her Catholic faith. The revolutionary set, represented by a group of street performers, use Galileo’s egalitarianist tendencies and his ideas to promote liberty, equality, and fraternity amongst the peasants of the Campagna.
Galileo, a man addicted to knowledge, fine wine and good food, cannot play the political game at this level of intensity. His outspoken views force his good friend and fellow scientist, Pope Urban VII, to bow to the pressure, and his arrogance brings the Inquisition on his head. Galileo has ‘the instruments’ shown to him. There is no need to use them: fear of torture makes him recant his theories. His toppling reverberates across Europe, and other Catholic scientists begin to self-censor. The New Age falters: Galileo retires to secluded house arrest, where his work is supervised and locked away each night by smug, middle-ranking Church officials.
The play is intellectually relentless, the formal dialogues between Galileo and the other characters move the audience through an extensive examination of the role of science in society.
When finally, Galileo has his theories smuggled out of Catholic Italy to Protestant Holland where they will be welcomed, his victory is Pyrrhic. He had an opportunity to sacrifice himself to further the attainment of individual freedom, but his fear of ‘the instruments’ prevented him from taking that step. At the time, he rationalised his cowardice by claiming “Unhappy the country that has need of heroes”. After an extended period of reflection, he concludes that the only goal of science is the welfare of man, and in subjugating what he knows to be true to shore up the hierarchical power structures of Catholic society, he has failed. The Church itself finally acknowledged this by pardoning Galileo in 1992. I kid you not!
Shortly before his death, Arthur Miller asked: “How many times do we have to indulge the same idiocies for which we must later be ashamed?”
Brecht wrote The Life of Gallileo in Santa Monica, California in the ‘forties, while Oppenheimer and his colleagues busied themselves just a little ways up the road. Brecht himself was ‘shown the instruments’ by the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities, and recanted his own theories. He fled for Europe next day, where he ended his career under the watchful eye of the East German Stasi.
Brecht’s epic theatre asks the audience to engage with it on an intellectual level. There is no room for empathy with the characters. Sitting in Project Arts Centre last night, we smiled knowingly at references to seventeenth century idiocies, reminded of the current rise of Creationism, of those who are being ‘shown the instruments’ in Guantanamo Bay and Iraq, of individuals such as Aung Sung Suu Kyi, locked away in seclusion by smug, middle-ranking officials.
Two things struck me as particularly interesting. The first was the role of business in the play. As far as the merchants and mill owners of Italy were concerned, Gallileo could do what he liked so long as his innovations made them money. A mill owner even offers to smuggle him into the Venetian Republic, away from the influence of the Inquisition, and it is only Galileo’s arrogance that loses him this opportunity to escape.
The second was the pertinence of the play to the great intellectual struggle underway in the USA at present. In a society created to provide freedom from religious persecution, public opinion is being increasingly influenced by groups and individuals whose religious intolerance is trying to suppress homosexuality and the works of Charles Darwin.
These two issues raised a question I hadn't thought of before.
To what extent does modern business have a role in this debate? Diversity management is the new buzzword in European business circles, but it has been kicking around American corporations a lot longer. Is it contributing to the debate? Or is it sitting on the fence like it did with Galileo?
NARRATOR 4: Queenie + Percy discuss heroism in the televisual age
After the mayhem that ended our last evening together, Queenie and I pretended to be mad with each other and ran avoidance for a few days. To tell you the truth, I was a bit embarrassed. I mean, I don’t even fancy Sean Bean, I prefer my men a bit suave, you know. But it’s not often he jumps out of a cupboard in your friend’s apartment. And as I was stoned to the eyeballs on Xanax and Shiraz at the time (nice buzz actually), I missed a crucial opportunity to impress and put meeting the hobbits on the Quest agenda (Not that I believe in Quests). However, Queenie rang today and said to get my hot ass round, Percy needed our undivided. I made it conditional on revising my storage vision for the man cupboard. Queenie called me a conniving manslut and said dinner was at seven sharp.
Unbeknowst to Queenie, Percy was actually quiet because he was happy. Finally, he felt his Quest was back on track. He was surreptitiously noting what he could of the location and strengths of different heroes he saw on television. So he could ride out and marshall them. Unfortunately, they all seemed to live in a terrible, pestilence-ridden wasteland land called America, the centre of which, according to Queenie, was full of ‘droid people who deserved everything that was coming to them, and should be avoided at all costs. And he would need her help to get there. Another problem he faced was how to slip his weaponry out of the man cupboard without Sean Bean reattaching himself to his riding boot.
But this evening, Queenie had confounded his progress by hiding the remote control. ‘Swounds, she was relentless. After dinner with her and Narrator, she took his hand and said in a gentle voice that she needed him to understand that television was not real. It was an instrument for controlling people, she said. Narrator snorted at this and said Queenie must be well under control, then, seeing as how she was permanently plonked in front of it. Percy wasn’t sure what Queenie meant; he felt television was some sort of modern minstrel. Queenie thought that was a good analogy. Like cds and Playstations and chick lit novels, it was a way people kept in touch with important things like love and heroes and Quests nowadays, she told him. But unlike other minstrels, it was very powerful.
The reason it was so powerful was because everyone had one, everyone in the world almost, and so they all heard the same stories. This meant that the people who owned the stories could say whatever they liked, and everyone would believe them. And those people decided what dragons were and what heroes were, and because everyone wanted to feel the same as everyone else, they all hated these dragons and tried to be heroes like on television.
What kind of dragons, Percy wondered. Dragons such as fear and loneliness, said Queenie, the shadow crossing her face again. And what kind of heroes, he asked, a little afraid now.
Narrator, who was knelt peering through the keyhole of the man cupboard, suddenly said he could answer that, and started rummaging furiously through Queenie’s cd collection. He was looking for a minstrel called Bonnie Tyler, who had a great song about heroes, he said. Queenie got very annoyed and said she didn’t buy that kind of crap. Narrator reminded her of something called a karaoke bar in Kusadasi, 1996. They were getting quite upset about the whole thing, so Percy suggested they put on the cd made by a minstrel called the Boss. He said this because Queenie liked him. Narrator looked disgustedly at Queenie and muttered something about taking the girl out of the bog. Queenie looked at Percy strangely. You’re a lot smarter than you let on, dude, she said.
Unbeknowst to Queenie, Percy was actually quiet because he was happy. Finally, he felt his Quest was back on track. He was surreptitiously noting what he could of the location and strengths of different heroes he saw on television. So he could ride out and marshall them. Unfortunately, they all seemed to live in a terrible, pestilence-ridden wasteland land called America, the centre of which, according to Queenie, was full of ‘droid people who deserved everything that was coming to them, and should be avoided at all costs. And he would need her help to get there. Another problem he faced was how to slip his weaponry out of the man cupboard without Sean Bean reattaching himself to his riding boot.
But this evening, Queenie had confounded his progress by hiding the remote control. ‘Swounds, she was relentless. After dinner with her and Narrator, she took his hand and said in a gentle voice that she needed him to understand that television was not real. It was an instrument for controlling people, she said. Narrator snorted at this and said Queenie must be well under control, then, seeing as how she was permanently plonked in front of it. Percy wasn’t sure what Queenie meant; he felt television was some sort of modern minstrel. Queenie thought that was a good analogy. Like cds and Playstations and chick lit novels, it was a way people kept in touch with important things like love and heroes and Quests nowadays, she told him. But unlike other minstrels, it was very powerful.
The reason it was so powerful was because everyone had one, everyone in the world almost, and so they all heard the same stories. This meant that the people who owned the stories could say whatever they liked, and everyone would believe them. And those people decided what dragons were and what heroes were, and because everyone wanted to feel the same as everyone else, they all hated these dragons and tried to be heroes like on television.
What kind of dragons, Percy wondered. Dragons such as fear and loneliness, said Queenie, the shadow crossing her face again. And what kind of heroes, he asked, a little afraid now.
Narrator, who was knelt peering through the keyhole of the man cupboard, suddenly said he could answer that, and started rummaging furiously through Queenie’s cd collection. He was looking for a minstrel called Bonnie Tyler, who had a great song about heroes, he said. Queenie got very annoyed and said she didn’t buy that kind of crap. Narrator reminded her of something called a karaoke bar in Kusadasi, 1996. They were getting quite upset about the whole thing, so Percy suggested they put on the cd made by a minstrel called the Boss. He said this because Queenie liked him. Narrator looked disgustedly at Queenie and muttered something about taking the girl out of the bog. Queenie looked at Percy strangely. You’re a lot smarter than you let on, dude, she said.
Wednesday, February 23, 2005
NARRATOR 3: Our Heroes are feeling a little Trapped
Queenie + Percy may both have a Quest, but after last night this mage of mosaic, this shaman of shag pile, feels they may be a bad influence on each other. Queenie had surfed along quite nicely until now, cocooned in a beige, appliqué quilt of sarcasm and irony. She mostly ignored her Quest, indulging in red wine, dark Venezuelan rum and other less widely available stimulants to blunt its niggling. Percy’s appearance, and contention that a Quest is ‘a good thing’ has required a more intense application of these blunting mechanisms, which is not having a good impact on Queenie’s ability to function in the world of the ‘droid people. She is feeling a little trapped.
Percy is also feeling a little constrained by his circumstances. The man cupboard, although fitted with tasteful and ingenious (if I may say so myself) storage solutions for small spaces (the principal design challenge was accommodating his plumed helmet), is very cramped. Along with a sense of physical restriction, Percy is having trouble thinking ‘outside the box’. His inability to concentrate on an intellectual analysis of his Quest is compounded by his reduced endorphin and adrenaline levels, due to his not having slayed a dragon in ages.
Queenie is always telling Percy that their Quests are the same. He doesn’t quite understand what she means, but he thinks it is something to do with the small, determined ache in his heart that will not go away until he has held the Holy Grail in his gloved hands and its glorious light illuminates all the nooks and crannies of his being. Sometimes, when Queenie is sitting by herself on a wet Tuesday and there is nothing on TV, her face turns in on itself and he can see the shadow of that ache flit across her dark eyes and her mouth.
However, Percy worries that Queenie is not as true to her Quest as he is to his. Often in the wee hours, when Queenie has had too much to smoke, she puts forward the proposition that they are both wasting their lives on their respective Quests, and that maybe they should just ‘be one with the ‘droid people‘. She talks a lot of nonsense when she smokes, of course, but as far as Percy can make out, ‘droid people are those citizens who do not have a Quest of their own and who only think about money, but who expect others to fight dragons on their behalf and then complain about the methods used as an excuse to avoid payment for the dragon heads. They include most people, as far as he can make out, particularly the ones whose appearance on news shows on television make Queenie shout at the television.
Those citizens irritate Percy too, but he tries to be compassionate towards them, because not everyone is blessed with the joy of a Quest. Queenie thinks Percy is a twat for thinking like that. Compassion is a bit hit and miss with her. Something to do with a world that Queenie visits five days a week in which knights allow their hunting hounds to eat each other.
Nevertheless, despite their differences, they have muddled along quite well up till now. But Queenie is quite worried about Percy. He’s been very quiet lately, and doesn’t argue with the same ferocity when she suggests giving up his Quest. She is even thinking about slinging the other two out of the man cupboard to give him the solitude he wants. Besides, they are tormenting his gentle, poet’s soul.
Clive Owen keeps banging on and on about how an evil wizard of the ’droid people called Dan Brown has already completed his Quest, and Sean Bean is adamant that the Holy Grail is in fact a small golden ring that was destroyed in a volcanic eruption in a place called New Zealand about five years ago. He reckons that Percy and he should go on a new Quest together. Preferably one that involves lots of terrified maidens.
Queenie considered it seriously. But having read The Road Less Travelled a couple of years ago, to placate her mother, Queenie knows that it’s a double-edged sword, being alone with your thoughts. And besides, who wants a man cupboard populated solely by a depressed virgin?
Percy is also feeling a little constrained by his circumstances. The man cupboard, although fitted with tasteful and ingenious (if I may say so myself) storage solutions for small spaces (the principal design challenge was accommodating his plumed helmet), is very cramped. Along with a sense of physical restriction, Percy is having trouble thinking ‘outside the box’. His inability to concentrate on an intellectual analysis of his Quest is compounded by his reduced endorphin and adrenaline levels, due to his not having slayed a dragon in ages.
Queenie is always telling Percy that their Quests are the same. He doesn’t quite understand what she means, but he thinks it is something to do with the small, determined ache in his heart that will not go away until he has held the Holy Grail in his gloved hands and its glorious light illuminates all the nooks and crannies of his being. Sometimes, when Queenie is sitting by herself on a wet Tuesday and there is nothing on TV, her face turns in on itself and he can see the shadow of that ache flit across her dark eyes and her mouth.
However, Percy worries that Queenie is not as true to her Quest as he is to his. Often in the wee hours, when Queenie has had too much to smoke, she puts forward the proposition that they are both wasting their lives on their respective Quests, and that maybe they should just ‘be one with the ‘droid people‘. She talks a lot of nonsense when she smokes, of course, but as far as Percy can make out, ‘droid people are those citizens who do not have a Quest of their own and who only think about money, but who expect others to fight dragons on their behalf and then complain about the methods used as an excuse to avoid payment for the dragon heads. They include most people, as far as he can make out, particularly the ones whose appearance on news shows on television make Queenie shout at the television.
Those citizens irritate Percy too, but he tries to be compassionate towards them, because not everyone is blessed with the joy of a Quest. Queenie thinks Percy is a twat for thinking like that. Compassion is a bit hit and miss with her. Something to do with a world that Queenie visits five days a week in which knights allow their hunting hounds to eat each other.
Nevertheless, despite their differences, they have muddled along quite well up till now. But Queenie is quite worried about Percy. He’s been very quiet lately, and doesn’t argue with the same ferocity when she suggests giving up his Quest. She is even thinking about slinging the other two out of the man cupboard to give him the solitude he wants. Besides, they are tormenting his gentle, poet’s soul.
Clive Owen keeps banging on and on about how an evil wizard of the ’droid people called Dan Brown has already completed his Quest, and Sean Bean is adamant that the Holy Grail is in fact a small golden ring that was destroyed in a volcanic eruption in a place called New Zealand about five years ago. He reckons that Percy and he should go on a new Quest together. Preferably one that involves lots of terrified maidens.
Queenie considered it seriously. But having read The Road Less Travelled a couple of years ago, to placate her mother, Queenie knows that it’s a double-edged sword, being alone with your thoughts. And besides, who wants a man cupboard populated solely by a depressed virgin?
Queenie + Percy's Top 10 Heroes of all time - Number 9
Parvati (Hindu Goddess of Righteous Indignation, Consort of Lord Shiva)
Parvati was the daughter of the mountain king, Himalaya, and a woman who did not understand the meaning of "that man's not for you".
An evil tyrant called Taraka took over the world and only the son of Shiva could save it from destruction. Shiva, the Lord of the Universe, didn't want a kid, however. He had more important things on his mind - austerity, aloofness, meditation, solitary bliss, the usual bloke stuff.
Parvati decided to persuade Shiva to save the world, and get herself laid in the process. She took herself off up a mountain and began to meditate in the blazing sun. She built four great fires to increase the heat, and meditated furiously. Her skin cracked and blistered, her hair matted, her soft eyes burned, but still she meditated.
Eventually, a Brahmin youth happened along and asked her why she was torturing herself. "My desire is Shiva, the Highest Object", she answered. The Brahmin pointed out that Shiva was the god of destruction, that he hung out in graveyards and reeked of death, that he had dodgy antecedents. Parvati told him to bog off, that Shiva was 'beyond the mind of such as him'. "Shiva is my love", she said.
Whereupon the Brahmin youth turned into Shiva. And not a pair of beer goggles in sight.
Shiva and Parvati went on to begat the war god Kumara and reveal the Tantric texts. Both of which proved very useful to a lot of people.
Parvati makes our Top Ten for persistence. Queenie would like to know what Shiva was doing checking her out, if he was so busy being aloof and unavailable.
Parvati was the daughter of the mountain king, Himalaya, and a woman who did not understand the meaning of "that man's not for you".
An evil tyrant called Taraka took over the world and only the son of Shiva could save it from destruction. Shiva, the Lord of the Universe, didn't want a kid, however. He had more important things on his mind - austerity, aloofness, meditation, solitary bliss, the usual bloke stuff.
Parvati decided to persuade Shiva to save the world, and get herself laid in the process. She took herself off up a mountain and began to meditate in the blazing sun. She built four great fires to increase the heat, and meditated furiously. Her skin cracked and blistered, her hair matted, her soft eyes burned, but still she meditated.
Eventually, a Brahmin youth happened along and asked her why she was torturing herself. "My desire is Shiva, the Highest Object", she answered. The Brahmin pointed out that Shiva was the god of destruction, that he hung out in graveyards and reeked of death, that he had dodgy antecedents. Parvati told him to bog off, that Shiva was 'beyond the mind of such as him'. "Shiva is my love", she said.
Whereupon the Brahmin youth turned into Shiva. And not a pair of beer goggles in sight.
Shiva and Parvati went on to begat the war god Kumara and reveal the Tantric texts. Both of which proved very useful to a lot of people.
Parvati makes our Top Ten for persistence. Queenie would like to know what Shiva was doing checking her out, if he was so busy being aloof and unavailable.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Queenie + Percy’s Top Ten Heroes of all time – Number 10
Cuchulainn (the hound of Culann)
Hero of ancient Irish mythology. Great hurler. Formerly known as Setanta. Was named Cuchulainn after he killed Culann’s guard dog with a perfectly aimed sliotar down the neck. When he was four.
Not to be confused with that other great hurler, Setanta Ó hAilpín. People from Cork think this fella is a hero, but Queenie is not, so she doesn't reckon he could choke a wolfhound with a sliotar.
Cuchulainn grew up to be the greatest warrior in Ireland. As such, he was useful to powerful people, and so was manipulated by various, nefarious rulers, such as Conchubhair of Eamain Mhaca (Armagh) and Queen Maedb of Connaught. Ended up killing his best friend Ferdia in battle as a result of her deviousness. Auld bag.
And of course, we’re still killing each other over small, boggy patches of land that wouldn’t feed a warrior, never mind a host – Queenie.
Fought the entire forces of Connaught single-handedly, after Maedb put a spell on the rest of his comrades, and when finally overcome, tied himself to a pillar and fought on. When he died, nobody would go near him to check his pulse until a raven settled on his shoulder and drank his blood.
Had a vicious temper, known as a paroxysm, or distortion. In fact, Queenie reckons he’s a forebear of the Incredible Hulk:
“he became a fearsome and multiform and wondrous and hitherto unknown being. All over him, from his crown to the ground, his flesh and every limb and joint and point of articulation of him quivered…. His mouth was twisted awry till it met his ears. Flakes of fire streamed from it…. The sounding blows of the heart that pounded within him were as the howl of a ban-dog* doing his office, or of a lion in the act of charging bears.” – The Hero with a Thousand Faces, p 333
He makes it into Queenie + Percy’s top ten, but his bad temper loses him the top spot.
If anyone has any submissions to make on the top ten heroes of all time (well this week anyway), Queenie would be interested in receiving them. But she is not interested in building a consensus here because she has to do that for a living and that’s bad enough. So the final decision is hers. And Percy’s.
* Ban-dog means female dog btw, unless Campbell meant bán, which is white in Irish. Queenie is a pedant on top of everything else.
Hero of ancient Irish mythology. Great hurler. Formerly known as Setanta. Was named Cuchulainn after he killed Culann’s guard dog with a perfectly aimed sliotar down the neck. When he was four.
Not to be confused with that other great hurler, Setanta Ó hAilpín. People from Cork think this fella is a hero, but Queenie is not, so she doesn't reckon he could choke a wolfhound with a sliotar.
Cuchulainn grew up to be the greatest warrior in Ireland. As such, he was useful to powerful people, and so was manipulated by various, nefarious rulers, such as Conchubhair of Eamain Mhaca (Armagh) and Queen Maedb of Connaught. Ended up killing his best friend Ferdia in battle as a result of her deviousness. Auld bag.
And of course, we’re still killing each other over small, boggy patches of land that wouldn’t feed a warrior, never mind a host – Queenie.
Fought the entire forces of Connaught single-handedly, after Maedb put a spell on the rest of his comrades, and when finally overcome, tied himself to a pillar and fought on. When he died, nobody would go near him to check his pulse until a raven settled on his shoulder and drank his blood.
Had a vicious temper, known as a paroxysm, or distortion. In fact, Queenie reckons he’s a forebear of the Incredible Hulk:
“he became a fearsome and multiform and wondrous and hitherto unknown being. All over him, from his crown to the ground, his flesh and every limb and joint and point of articulation of him quivered…. His mouth was twisted awry till it met his ears. Flakes of fire streamed from it…. The sounding blows of the heart that pounded within him were as the howl of a ban-dog* doing his office, or of a lion in the act of charging bears.” – The Hero with a Thousand Faces, p 333
He makes it into Queenie + Percy’s top ten, but his bad temper loses him the top spot.
If anyone has any submissions to make on the top ten heroes of all time (well this week anyway), Queenie would be interested in receiving them. But she is not interested in building a consensus here because she has to do that for a living and that’s bad enough. So the final decision is hers. And Percy’s.
* Ban-dog means female dog btw, unless Campbell meant bán, which is white in Irish. Queenie is a pedant on top of everything else.
NARRATOR 2: Queenie + Percy discuss the challenges facing dragon slayers in the new economy
Queenie is going through an interior design phase and keeps inviting me round. Ostensibly, it is do a fixer upper on her shelving requirements (she has a lot of books and shoes), but no matter how ingenious, quirky, or downright bitchin’ my designs are, we generally defer any decision-making with a bottle of wine and a bit of what she calls intellectual dragon-slaying. I suspect she really just wants someone to listen to her, but she’s too proud to admit it.
Unfortunately, Percy gets quite confused when we do this. One night, we were shooting the breeze about the war in Iraq when he appeared dressed to the neck in rusty chain mail wielding what I can only describe as seven foot spiked lump hammer, screaming “Where is it, Where is it?” I got quite agitated and there was a bit of confusion while Queenie found my Xanax, confiscated the lump hammer and persuaded Percy an attack was NOT imminent, and to put his pyjamas back on. Then she decided we should sort out Percy’s dragon confusion. Personally, I find rationalising with a man attired in pink girl’s pyjamas and a large, red-plumed helmet a bit unnerving (I don’t care what Wallpaper* says, pink and red never work together), so I sat back and let the Xanax warm me up and left it to Queenie.
Percy had accepted Queenie’s offer of shelter and assistance in his Quest very gratefully. As a knight and a hero he was obliged to return the favour. Besides, he liked Queenie and Narrator had told him that she was under siege from many dragons. However, he was having a lot of difficulty understanding when they attacked and how to slay them.
He explained to Queenie that previously, for centuries actually, when he came across a terrified maiden bound to a tree, he dismounted from his trusty steed and offered his services. Usually, the frightened villagers would point to the trail of destruction left by the marauding creature and show him a spot to lay in wait. Then when the dragon appeared Percy would slay him. Sometimes it took all day and he was quite tired afterwards. But exhilarated. Usually, the maiden offered him all kinds of inducements to stay on in the village and protect her, but Percy always felt pulled onwards by a deep urge to pick up the trail of his Quest.
Queenie said that might work with some chicks, but she was NOT a terrified maiden, and besides, she didn’t believe in the use of force, no, not even to slay dragons. Besides, she remarked, in that supercilious tone she used when she suspected Percy was trying to protect her, that one on one combat with dragons was not possible nowadays because they sit in their caves and rampage from afar with sophisticated technological devices.
She was adamant that Percy could not go and beard them in their caves because, she said, nobody is sure where they are, or indeed what dragons look like anymore. All we know of them is what they want us to believe, she added. It’s all about the brand nowadays, dude, she said, ‘old economy’ tactics won’t work on these guys.
Percy disagreed. When she was at work he watched television and saw many examples of ‘old economy’ dragon slaying, even though the battles were a little different to what he was used to. He had even seen one where the heroes looked like him, although generally, they were horse-mounted heroes called cowboys, or paint-streaked giants called Special Ops commanders, or rugged men called cops. But he argued that they were all on a Quest, and that despite their differences in battle tactics, they were all excellent dragon slayers.
Queenie started getting impatient with Percy then and tried to explain that there are many, many dragons in the world now, of all types with all kinds of agendas, and they are working together, which makes them almost unbeatable. Percy felt a surge of usefulness then. If what Queenie said was true, he argued, if the dragons were gathering strength again, maybe he should ride out and try to marshall a fellowship of heroes.
Queenie looked at him sadly, and was just about to speak when suddenly, Sean Bean jumped out of the man cupboard, where he had been sat listening with his pointy elbows* on his knees. To Percy’s consternation, he knelt at his feet and breathlessly mumbled an oath of allegiance to ‘my brother, my captain, my king’. Percy tried to wrestle him to his feet, but Sean Bean clung to him, sobbing. Narrator fainted. Clive Owen sniggered and continued playing Cotillion. Queenie swore at them all and went to bed.
* A badger told me this, so it must be true.
Unfortunately, Percy gets quite confused when we do this. One night, we were shooting the breeze about the war in Iraq when he appeared dressed to the neck in rusty chain mail wielding what I can only describe as seven foot spiked lump hammer, screaming “Where is it, Where is it?” I got quite agitated and there was a bit of confusion while Queenie found my Xanax, confiscated the lump hammer and persuaded Percy an attack was NOT imminent, and to put his pyjamas back on. Then she decided we should sort out Percy’s dragon confusion. Personally, I find rationalising with a man attired in pink girl’s pyjamas and a large, red-plumed helmet a bit unnerving (I don’t care what Wallpaper* says, pink and red never work together), so I sat back and let the Xanax warm me up and left it to Queenie.
Percy had accepted Queenie’s offer of shelter and assistance in his Quest very gratefully. As a knight and a hero he was obliged to return the favour. Besides, he liked Queenie and Narrator had told him that she was under siege from many dragons. However, he was having a lot of difficulty understanding when they attacked and how to slay them.
He explained to Queenie that previously, for centuries actually, when he came across a terrified maiden bound to a tree, he dismounted from his trusty steed and offered his services. Usually, the frightened villagers would point to the trail of destruction left by the marauding creature and show him a spot to lay in wait. Then when the dragon appeared Percy would slay him. Sometimes it took all day and he was quite tired afterwards. But exhilarated. Usually, the maiden offered him all kinds of inducements to stay on in the village and protect her, but Percy always felt pulled onwards by a deep urge to pick up the trail of his Quest.
Queenie said that might work with some chicks, but she was NOT a terrified maiden, and besides, she didn’t believe in the use of force, no, not even to slay dragons. Besides, she remarked, in that supercilious tone she used when she suspected Percy was trying to protect her, that one on one combat with dragons was not possible nowadays because they sit in their caves and rampage from afar with sophisticated technological devices.
She was adamant that Percy could not go and beard them in their caves because, she said, nobody is sure where they are, or indeed what dragons look like anymore. All we know of them is what they want us to believe, she added. It’s all about the brand nowadays, dude, she said, ‘old economy’ tactics won’t work on these guys.
Percy disagreed. When she was at work he watched television and saw many examples of ‘old economy’ dragon slaying, even though the battles were a little different to what he was used to. He had even seen one where the heroes looked like him, although generally, they were horse-mounted heroes called cowboys, or paint-streaked giants called Special Ops commanders, or rugged men called cops. But he argued that they were all on a Quest, and that despite their differences in battle tactics, they were all excellent dragon slayers.
Queenie started getting impatient with Percy then and tried to explain that there are many, many dragons in the world now, of all types with all kinds of agendas, and they are working together, which makes them almost unbeatable. Percy felt a surge of usefulness then. If what Queenie said was true, he argued, if the dragons were gathering strength again, maybe he should ride out and try to marshall a fellowship of heroes.
Queenie looked at him sadly, and was just about to speak when suddenly, Sean Bean jumped out of the man cupboard, where he had been sat listening with his pointy elbows* on his knees. To Percy’s consternation, he knelt at his feet and breathlessly mumbled an oath of allegiance to ‘my brother, my captain, my king’. Percy tried to wrestle him to his feet, but Sean Bean clung to him, sobbing. Narrator fainted. Clive Owen sniggered and continued playing Cotillion. Queenie swore at them all and went to bed.
* A badger told me this, so it must be true.
Gerry Adams was never a member of the IRA army council. And Queenie is Liv Tyler.
Liv Tyler is tall and slim with long dark hair. So is Queenie. Liv Tyler cannot tell left from right and finds driving intermittently challenging. So does Queenie. Liv Tyler knows a lot about hobbits. So does Queenie. Liv Tyler sleeps with rock stars (well one in particular). So does Queenie, when she gets the opportunity (although she doesn’t narrow her options so much, not having bagged one yet).
However, Queenie is not Liv Tyler. She knows this, because she does not have incredibly beautiful eyes and translucent skin, nor does she have a lifestyle that involves getting paid to go and live in New Zealand, or free dresses to wear to the Oscars.
Queenie is quite upset about all the kerfuffle around the nasty IRA and their lying and thieving and hoodwinking of just about everyone over the last few years. She is more than a little miffed at the thought that all the overtime she put in during the nineties, when she helped out on the fringes of the peace process, might be about to be flushed down the toilet. She is pissed off that, having grown up in a country where it was possible to watch people being murdered live on television, her views are not considered important. She is particularly upset that seventy people saw Robert McCartney have his throat ripped open in a Belfast bar last week but they’re saying nothing because they’re too scared (she doesn’t believe that for a second, pack of fence sitters).
But mostly she is upset, because Martin McGuinness, who she knows to be a very clever man, seems to be under the illusion that he is NOT currently a member of the IRA Army Council. She was having her breakfast on Sunday morning when she heard him, quite clearly say that he was not, on live radio. And then he said that Gerry Adams NEVER was, and Queenie nearly choked on her toast.
Queenie is like everyone else riding the Celtic Tiger. She would like the peace process, and its dreary steeples, and its brown suited men, and its suave apologists, and its oppressive righteousness to go away. But it never does. And now she has to think about it again.
She thought about it this morning when she saw a photo of Gerry Adams addressing a gathering of his supporters at a memorial for three IRA operatives who were assassinated by British troops (Queenie is being diplomatic in the use of her language here, knowing that some people felt the Troubles was a war). These people were wearing green military clothes and berets. Like the F.C.A., or the Territorials. Only cooler of course, because Gerry Adams, architect of the peace process was there.
Now Queenie is prepared to consider the possibility that her government is lying to her, that’s what governments do after all (isn’t it?), but she thinks that if she went to a memorial to commemorate her dead comrades, she would expect their leader to address the gathering.
Queenie also thinks that traditionally, Irish revolutionary movements that did not have a joint military/ political leadership usually ended up having a split when the political route was chosen. And that never happened in 1997. Not really.
But mostly, she wonders why these mysterious men (or maybe women) who make up the IRA Army Council have never made themselves known. They must be very unassuming. They fought the British army to a standstill, after all. They must be very proud of what they did. They must have wanted to win seats in the Houses of Parliament. To beard the hated enemy in its den. To use his phones and photocopiers and expense accounts to build a brave new world. Queenie wouldn’t have been able to resist. She wouldn’t have been able to contain herself enough to let some unblooded mouthpiece take her place for the next stage in the process. No sirree, she wouldn’t.
But maybe Queenie has it all wrong. She isn’t Liv Tyler after all, despite the superficial similarity and the driving dyslexia and the penchant for rock stars and the diploma in hobbit lore.
Just because Gerry Adams calls himself the leader of the republican family, and addresses military gatherings, and calls all the political shots north and south of the border, and speaks authoritatively on all aspects of the peace process, and struts around like he owns her goddamn country, doesn’t mean he’s a member of the IRA Army Council.
Whatever it is, and Queenie has her suspicions, up until now, she was prepared to let all this slide, because she thought that the Army Council members didn’t name themselves to prevent their enemies using it against them politically. After all, it’s a dirty game. But whatever about stealing money from a bank, or smuggling petrol across the Border, or running parts of Belfast like a personal fiefdom, ripping some bloke’s throat out in a pub because he dissed your capo is not on. So Queenie is not going to let it slide anymore. And neither is anyone else.
And so the appalling vista reopens itself, just in time for the next round of elections. Legions of martyrs and not a hero in sight!
However, Queenie is not Liv Tyler. She knows this, because she does not have incredibly beautiful eyes and translucent skin, nor does she have a lifestyle that involves getting paid to go and live in New Zealand, or free dresses to wear to the Oscars.
Queenie is quite upset about all the kerfuffle around the nasty IRA and their lying and thieving and hoodwinking of just about everyone over the last few years. She is more than a little miffed at the thought that all the overtime she put in during the nineties, when she helped out on the fringes of the peace process, might be about to be flushed down the toilet. She is pissed off that, having grown up in a country where it was possible to watch people being murdered live on television, her views are not considered important. She is particularly upset that seventy people saw Robert McCartney have his throat ripped open in a Belfast bar last week but they’re saying nothing because they’re too scared (she doesn’t believe that for a second, pack of fence sitters).
But mostly she is upset, because Martin McGuinness, who she knows to be a very clever man, seems to be under the illusion that he is NOT currently a member of the IRA Army Council. She was having her breakfast on Sunday morning when she heard him, quite clearly say that he was not, on live radio. And then he said that Gerry Adams NEVER was, and Queenie nearly choked on her toast.
Queenie is like everyone else riding the Celtic Tiger. She would like the peace process, and its dreary steeples, and its brown suited men, and its suave apologists, and its oppressive righteousness to go away. But it never does. And now she has to think about it again.
She thought about it this morning when she saw a photo of Gerry Adams addressing a gathering of his supporters at a memorial for three IRA operatives who were assassinated by British troops (Queenie is being diplomatic in the use of her language here, knowing that some people felt the Troubles was a war). These people were wearing green military clothes and berets. Like the F.C.A., or the Territorials. Only cooler of course, because Gerry Adams, architect of the peace process was there.
Now Queenie is prepared to consider the possibility that her government is lying to her, that’s what governments do after all (isn’t it?), but she thinks that if she went to a memorial to commemorate her dead comrades, she would expect their leader to address the gathering.
Queenie also thinks that traditionally, Irish revolutionary movements that did not have a joint military/ political leadership usually ended up having a split when the political route was chosen. And that never happened in 1997. Not really.
But mostly, she wonders why these mysterious men (or maybe women) who make up the IRA Army Council have never made themselves known. They must be very unassuming. They fought the British army to a standstill, after all. They must be very proud of what they did. They must have wanted to win seats in the Houses of Parliament. To beard the hated enemy in its den. To use his phones and photocopiers and expense accounts to build a brave new world. Queenie wouldn’t have been able to resist. She wouldn’t have been able to contain herself enough to let some unblooded mouthpiece take her place for the next stage in the process. No sirree, she wouldn’t.
But maybe Queenie has it all wrong. She isn’t Liv Tyler after all, despite the superficial similarity and the driving dyslexia and the penchant for rock stars and the diploma in hobbit lore.
Just because Gerry Adams calls himself the leader of the republican family, and addresses military gatherings, and calls all the political shots north and south of the border, and speaks authoritatively on all aspects of the peace process, and struts around like he owns her goddamn country, doesn’t mean he’s a member of the IRA Army Council.
Whatever it is, and Queenie has her suspicions, up until now, she was prepared to let all this slide, because she thought that the Army Council members didn’t name themselves to prevent their enemies using it against them politically. After all, it’s a dirty game. But whatever about stealing money from a bank, or smuggling petrol across the Border, or running parts of Belfast like a personal fiefdom, ripping some bloke’s throat out in a pub because he dissed your capo is not on. So Queenie is not going to let it slide anymore. And neither is anyone else.
And so the appalling vista reopens itself, just in time for the next round of elections. Legions of martyrs and not a hero in sight!
Monday, February 21, 2005
Norway's Black Metal Scene - the inside story
This story from yesterday's Observer Music Monthly magazine is hilarious.
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/omm/story/0,13887,1415240,00.html
And proof that:
a) Norwegians are mostly bonkers (with apologies to my 'relatively' sane Norwegian friends) and should have their highly lucrative oil and whaling industries removed from them forthwith (and given to a sensible, productive, hard-working race like the Irish);
b) Anyone who thinks that knowing about/ keeping alive the flame of Norse mythology is a GOOD thing is wrong.
Are you listening, Percy? - Queenie
http://observer.guardian.co.uk/omm/story/0,13887,1415240,00.html
And proof that:
a) Norwegians are mostly bonkers (with apologies to my 'relatively' sane Norwegian friends) and should have their highly lucrative oil and whaling industries removed from them forthwith (and given to a sensible, productive, hard-working race like the Irish);
b) Anyone who thinks that knowing about/ keeping alive the flame of Norse mythology is a GOOD thing is wrong.
Are you listening, Percy? - Queenie
Monday's Question
If you destroy eighty thousand pounds STERLING by burning it in your sitting room fireplace, does that count as an act of decommissioning?
Dublin International Film Festival
Queenie would like to congratulate the D.I.F.F. on a very good festival this year. A good time was had by her, even though she never did get the timing right and always ended up a little too close to the screen, generally beside the elderly person who ate his sandwiches out of a loud greaseproof paper bag during the film. Bless them. Queenie will be old one day so she tries to be compassionate. But sometimes it's hard.
Best flick for her had to be Mysterious Skin, by Gregg Araki. It was great to see Elizabeth Shue in a good film again and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is really good as her gay hustler son. The film, which is about the impact of paedophilia on the lives of two young boys, dealt very sensitively with a difficult topic. Queenie didn't do so well, when the elderly man next to her started to cry during a very intense moment in the film. Should she have patted him on the arm or something? She doesn't know.
Other great movies she saw were Garden State , written, starring and directed by Zack Braff. Nathalie Portman is a FINE actress. She carries the film, which is funny but a bit slight. But it is worth seeing (why do people go to see ninety minutes of film and then whinge about how it doesn't plumb the depths of every bit of the story. I repeat 90 minutes). Peter Sarsgaard is just FINE. Queenie is seriously thinking of slinging Clive Owen out of the mancupboard to make room for him. Also the soundtrack is worth checking out.
Queenie also went to see The King's Game, a Danish political thriller. At first, she thought that was a bit of an oxymoron, quiet little Denmark and all that, but then she remembered that the greatest political thriller of all time is set in Denmark.
King's Game is the adaptation of a novel written by a Danish spin doctor who based it on his experience of an internal struggle for power in his party. Queenie thinks she might have met this spin doctor during her years as a spinette. She certainly remembers that internal power struggle as being particularly nasty and the fall out - the coming to power of the right, an increasingly isolationist and racist Denmark - is still with us. Queenie has to have a think about European politics one of the days - maybe tonight after the Theo VanGogh documentary. I'm sure you're all creaming yourself at the thought of the nuggets of wisdom that will unearth.
Finally, Queenie recommends The Republic of Love, based on Carol Shield's novel (another great writer who died recently), directed by Deepa Mehta. Very funny take on singledom, frustration, desperation, love, fucking it up, pulling it off, and a really funny sex scene that showed a woman reaching orgasm from having her toe sucked.
Queenie would be so lucky.
Work commitments prevented Melinda and Melinda and Private from being viewed, even with tickets bought. Grrrrrrrrrr.
Best flick for her had to be Mysterious Skin, by Gregg Araki. It was great to see Elizabeth Shue in a good film again and Joseph Gordon-Levitt is really good as her gay hustler son. The film, which is about the impact of paedophilia on the lives of two young boys, dealt very sensitively with a difficult topic. Queenie didn't do so well, when the elderly man next to her started to cry during a very intense moment in the film. Should she have patted him on the arm or something? She doesn't know.
Other great movies she saw were Garden State , written, starring and directed by Zack Braff. Nathalie Portman is a FINE actress. She carries the film, which is funny but a bit slight. But it is worth seeing (why do people go to see ninety minutes of film and then whinge about how it doesn't plumb the depths of every bit of the story. I repeat 90 minutes). Peter Sarsgaard is just FINE. Queenie is seriously thinking of slinging Clive Owen out of the mancupboard to make room for him. Also the soundtrack is worth checking out.
Queenie also went to see The King's Game, a Danish political thriller. At first, she thought that was a bit of an oxymoron, quiet little Denmark and all that, but then she remembered that the greatest political thriller of all time is set in Denmark.
King's Game is the adaptation of a novel written by a Danish spin doctor who based it on his experience of an internal struggle for power in his party. Queenie thinks she might have met this spin doctor during her years as a spinette. She certainly remembers that internal power struggle as being particularly nasty and the fall out - the coming to power of the right, an increasingly isolationist and racist Denmark - is still with us. Queenie has to have a think about European politics one of the days - maybe tonight after the Theo VanGogh documentary. I'm sure you're all creaming yourself at the thought of the nuggets of wisdom that will unearth.
Finally, Queenie recommends The Republic of Love, based on Carol Shield's novel (another great writer who died recently), directed by Deepa Mehta. Very funny take on singledom, frustration, desperation, love, fucking it up, pulling it off, and a really funny sex scene that showed a woman reaching orgasm from having her toe sucked.
Queenie would be so lucky.
Work commitments prevented Melinda and Melinda and Private from being viewed, even with tickets bought. Grrrrrrrrrr.
Hunter S Thompson is dead
We hope that he didn't kill himself. And if he did, we hope that it was really what he wanted.
http://www.gonzo.org/
What a sad week for literature
http://www.gonzo.org/
What a sad week for literature
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Narrator 1: Why Percy lives in Queenie’s Man Cupboard
Context is the wallpaper of life and I am Queenie + Percy’s interior decorator. Before I line it up for you, let me just say that I have no interest in Quests of any kind unless they are a brand of soft furnishings featured in Wallpaper*.
Percy is a scholar-warrior-poet prince, who has fallen on hard times. He likes solitude, so he can concentrate on his Quest, which is to find the Holy Grail. Unfortunately, needs must, and due to his reduced circumstances, he is dependent on Queenie’s hospitality. As Queenie lives in a small apartment, she doesn’t have a whole pile of room, so Percy has to live in Queenie’s man cupboard.
As man cupboards go it is not too bad, as Queenie is quite fussy, but he has to share it with a rough lout from the Wold called Sean Bean, who keeps attacking him with his broadsword and singing songs about a glorious era in which a knight called Sheffield Utd. slew mighty dragons called Hotspur, which Percy didn’t think was a dragon name, and a charlatan called Clive Owen, who treats him very cruelly by telling him that he is in fact King Arthur and by claiming that the fragrant Guinevere has taken up archery and painted herself blue. As if!
Queenie is quite taken with his Quest. She has an analytical mind. She talks quite a lot about thinking outside the box. Indeed the man cupboard is a box of sorts, but Percy is not sure if that’s what she is referring to. Queenie says that the first thing to do is to define what the Holy Grail is. She undertook a magic search of all the world called a Google and said there were 800,000 possible definitions. Percy is supposed to spend his days working through this list of clues, but he finds it a little daunting.
Instead, the lull in the Quest’s activities such as dragon-slaying and maiden-rescuing has allowed Percy to explore his creative side, which is also quite solitary. He writes poetry, he paints, he sneaks out with Queenie’s Canon A75 Powershot when she’s at work and fiddles with the buttons to make swirly patterns that are quite artistic. And hide the camera shake in his sword arm. And also, he’s not very good with the Google magic, which is why Queenie posts to the blog. The blog is where Queenie + Percy marshal their thoughts (ideas are great foot soldiers, Percy, and you need an army, dude, Queenie once said) and slay Queenie’s dragons.
In fact, although he doesn’t know it, Queenie is quite taken with Percy. True, his poetry is a little mawkish, and his photographs are a bit like himself (pretty but boring, she said once when they were arguing) and he rarely changes his clothes or washes his long blonde hair, but there is something about him that softens her face when she thinks of him. And of course, she is interested in his Quest, because she is on something of a Quest herself.
Percy is a scholar-warrior-poet prince, who has fallen on hard times. He likes solitude, so he can concentrate on his Quest, which is to find the Holy Grail. Unfortunately, needs must, and due to his reduced circumstances, he is dependent on Queenie’s hospitality. As Queenie lives in a small apartment, she doesn’t have a whole pile of room, so Percy has to live in Queenie’s man cupboard.
As man cupboards go it is not too bad, as Queenie is quite fussy, but he has to share it with a rough lout from the Wold called Sean Bean, who keeps attacking him with his broadsword and singing songs about a glorious era in which a knight called Sheffield Utd. slew mighty dragons called Hotspur, which Percy didn’t think was a dragon name, and a charlatan called Clive Owen, who treats him very cruelly by telling him that he is in fact King Arthur and by claiming that the fragrant Guinevere has taken up archery and painted herself blue. As if!
Queenie is quite taken with his Quest. She has an analytical mind. She talks quite a lot about thinking outside the box. Indeed the man cupboard is a box of sorts, but Percy is not sure if that’s what she is referring to. Queenie says that the first thing to do is to define what the Holy Grail is. She undertook a magic search of all the world called a Google and said there were 800,000 possible definitions. Percy is supposed to spend his days working through this list of clues, but he finds it a little daunting.
Instead, the lull in the Quest’s activities such as dragon-slaying and maiden-rescuing has allowed Percy to explore his creative side, which is also quite solitary. He writes poetry, he paints, he sneaks out with Queenie’s Canon A75 Powershot when she’s at work and fiddles with the buttons to make swirly patterns that are quite artistic. And hide the camera shake in his sword arm. And also, he’s not very good with the Google magic, which is why Queenie posts to the blog. The blog is where Queenie + Percy marshal their thoughts (ideas are great foot soldiers, Percy, and you need an army, dude, Queenie once said) and slay Queenie’s dragons.
In fact, although he doesn’t know it, Queenie is quite taken with Percy. True, his poetry is a little mawkish, and his photographs are a bit like himself (pretty but boring, she said once when they were arguing) and he rarely changes his clothes or washes his long blonde hair, but there is something about him that softens her face when she thinks of him. And of course, she is interested in his Quest, because she is on something of a Quest herself.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Monday's Question
Arthur Miller wrote an article about the importance of theatre as a tool for social and political commentary and bemoaned its decline in the US, shortly before his death. To remember him and his art, we reproduce a very pertinent question he posed in the text. He began by saying, 'the bad part about being around a long time is the realisation that mankind is endlessly reinventing the wheel; now the stoical military virtues - a kind of Roman obedience and conformity - echo in an attorney general'
Question: How many times do we have to indulge the same idiocies for which we must later be ashamed?
Question: How many times do we have to indulge the same idiocies for which we must later be ashamed?
Friday, February 11, 2005
Friday's Question
Is a dream a lie if it don't come true, or is it something worse?
Seriously, apparently Irish band Stockton's Wing got their name from a Bruce Springsteen song. Which one?
This has Queenie and Percy both stumped.
Seriously, apparently Irish band Stockton's Wing got their name from a Bruce Springsteen song. Which one?
This has Queenie and Percy both stumped.
Thursday's Question
Sorry this is a bit late. Queenie had a meeting overrun of seven hours yesterday.
Why are the papers coming down with articles condeming Angelina Jolie for being a marriage wrecker, and not coming down with articles condemning Brad Pitt for being a git for leaving Jennifer Aniston because she wasn't ready to have a baby?
Why are the papers coming down with articles condeming Angelina Jolie for being a marriage wrecker, and not coming down with articles condemning Brad Pitt for being a git for leaving Jennifer Aniston because she wasn't ready to have a baby?
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Poor Old Bewildered Ireland? I think not!
Lizette Alvarez published an article in the New York Times on 2nd February entitled Suddenly Rich, Poor Old Ireland seems Bewildered, in which she outlines an apparent moral dilemma facing Irish people as we come to terms with our newfound prosperity. In addition, the reduced threat of a 'belt of the crozier', due to the embroiling of the Irish Catholic Church in a paedophile scandal, has apparently added to our confusion as our moral certainties are shaken on two fronts.
Alvarez puts forward the proposition that Irish people are suffering a crisis of identity, due to our newfound wealth and moral freedom.
She asks a number of questions, some of them pertinent to current debates we are engaged in around immigration and inequality, others less so. For example, she asks What does it mean to be Irish, given that so much of the national psyche is tied up in centuries of poverty?
How is that relevant, or specific, to Irishness? Have not most peoples, nations, or communities suffered the indignity of poverty at some time or another? It struck me that, with its emphasis on material possessions,it was a particularly American outlook on what informs a psyche. Surely a psyche is formed from more enduring influences. Our location on an island at the western edge of the European continent, for example. Our homogeneity (according to recent genetic research, over 80% of Irish male DNA comes from the same mutation). Or our landscape and climate. Surely these are the conditions that impact on our psyche and inform how we react to relatively transient issues such as poverty, oppression, rebellion, religious obedience, or emigration.
Personally, I think it is all moot. What is important now is how we use our newfound wealth as a tool to identify and inform our role in a global society. To misquote Joseph Campbell: The result is an unprecedented expansion of horizon, that could well serve in our age.
So, how's the view?
Alvarez quotes from a recent speech by Emily O'Reilly, a conservative, a former journalist and current Information Commissioner: Released from the handcuff of religious obedience, we are Dionysian in our revelry ... hence the staggering drink consumption, the childlike showing off of helicopters, four wheel drives and private cinemas, the fetishing of handbags and high heels.
My first reaction to this was that I move in very different social circles to Ms O'Reilly! But, seriously, surely this has more to do with the impact of consumerism, channelled through an increasingly corrupt media, on a newly wealthy population. Keeping up with the Jones' is a human habit that some of us indulge in because we are human and we can afford it. Not because the bishops have lost their vice-like on our necks.
The core of Alvarez' article seems to be the now boring (to those of us who remember the penurious, jobless, violence-ridden seventies and eighties) argument that Irish culture and character - its keen sense of community, its sharp humour in the face of hardship - will be steamrolled by the rollicking economy.
This view takes no consideration of the way in which the world is organised today. Our keen sense of community is still alive - the villages we live have modernised is all. I, along with the rest of the population (Ireland-based, or diaspora), am a member of many communities. Online, offline, local, global, where I live, where I'm from, built around my hobbies, my sporting allegiances, and my concerns. I play an active role in all of them.
Our sharp humour is still rampant, but nowadays it serves to illuminate our views on everything from Desperate Housewives (how did that show win a Golden Globe), to the bombing of Kabul, to record-breaking bank robberies in Belfast. And the hardship is still there - we are fully-fledged members of a polarised, war-torn, environmentally-damaged, disease-riddled planet, along with the rest of you.
We are a kind, compassionate, passionate, gregarious, inquisitive, unafraid people who put our hands in our wallets whenever we encounter the misfortune of others. My parent's generation built our economic miracle by going without to educate their children, by adroitly playing 'the great game' of the global labour market, and by developing a unique system of social dialogue that ensures everyone has a voice at the policy table.
Our voice is heard internationally too. Our NGOs are thought leaders in the developing world. We send our police and soldiers to Sierra Leone, to Bosnia, and to East Timor to fulfil our UN peace-keeping duties. We take an active part in building a social Europe. And our Government continues to repay its debt to the US by facilitating its military transports to the war in Iraq, even though it is against the wishes of many of its citizens.
But apart from all that, we know that life is for living, and that we are all different, and if your idea of a fun night out is to pop a bottle of vodka in your Prada handbag, slip on your Mahnolo Blahniks, fly your helicopter over to a friend's post-modern hacienda to watch ninety minutes of unadulterated, American cultural imperialist rubbish on his plasma screen, if that is what floats your unique, beautiful boat, then fair play to you. But you can expect a right slagging from the rest of us when you get back.
Alvarez puts forward the proposition that Irish people are suffering a crisis of identity, due to our newfound wealth and moral freedom.
She asks a number of questions, some of them pertinent to current debates we are engaged in around immigration and inequality, others less so. For example, she asks What does it mean to be Irish, given that so much of the national psyche is tied up in centuries of poverty?
How is that relevant, or specific, to Irishness? Have not most peoples, nations, or communities suffered the indignity of poverty at some time or another? It struck me that, with its emphasis on material possessions,it was a particularly American outlook on what informs a psyche. Surely a psyche is formed from more enduring influences. Our location on an island at the western edge of the European continent, for example. Our homogeneity (according to recent genetic research, over 80% of Irish male DNA comes from the same mutation). Or our landscape and climate. Surely these are the conditions that impact on our psyche and inform how we react to relatively transient issues such as poverty, oppression, rebellion, religious obedience, or emigration.
Personally, I think it is all moot. What is important now is how we use our newfound wealth as a tool to identify and inform our role in a global society. To misquote Joseph Campbell: The result is an unprecedented expansion of horizon, that could well serve in our age.
So, how's the view?
Alvarez quotes from a recent speech by Emily O'Reilly, a conservative, a former journalist and current Information Commissioner: Released from the handcuff of religious obedience, we are Dionysian in our revelry ... hence the staggering drink consumption, the childlike showing off of helicopters, four wheel drives and private cinemas, the fetishing of handbags and high heels.
My first reaction to this was that I move in very different social circles to Ms O'Reilly! But, seriously, surely this has more to do with the impact of consumerism, channelled through an increasingly corrupt media, on a newly wealthy population. Keeping up with the Jones' is a human habit that some of us indulge in because we are human and we can afford it. Not because the bishops have lost their vice-like on our necks.
The core of Alvarez' article seems to be the now boring (to those of us who remember the penurious, jobless, violence-ridden seventies and eighties) argument that Irish culture and character - its keen sense of community, its sharp humour in the face of hardship - will be steamrolled by the rollicking economy.
This view takes no consideration of the way in which the world is organised today. Our keen sense of community is still alive - the villages we live have modernised is all. I, along with the rest of the population (Ireland-based, or diaspora), am a member of many communities. Online, offline, local, global, where I live, where I'm from, built around my hobbies, my sporting allegiances, and my concerns. I play an active role in all of them.
Our sharp humour is still rampant, but nowadays it serves to illuminate our views on everything from Desperate Housewives (how did that show win a Golden Globe), to the bombing of Kabul, to record-breaking bank robberies in Belfast. And the hardship is still there - we are fully-fledged members of a polarised, war-torn, environmentally-damaged, disease-riddled planet, along with the rest of you.
We are a kind, compassionate, passionate, gregarious, inquisitive, unafraid people who put our hands in our wallets whenever we encounter the misfortune of others. My parent's generation built our economic miracle by going without to educate their children, by adroitly playing 'the great game' of the global labour market, and by developing a unique system of social dialogue that ensures everyone has a voice at the policy table.
Our voice is heard internationally too. Our NGOs are thought leaders in the developing world. We send our police and soldiers to Sierra Leone, to Bosnia, and to East Timor to fulfil our UN peace-keeping duties. We take an active part in building a social Europe. And our Government continues to repay its debt to the US by facilitating its military transports to the war in Iraq, even though it is against the wishes of many of its citizens.
But apart from all that, we know that life is for living, and that we are all different, and if your idea of a fun night out is to pop a bottle of vodka in your Prada handbag, slip on your Mahnolo Blahniks, fly your helicopter over to a friend's post-modern hacienda to watch ninety minutes of unadulterated, American cultural imperialist rubbish on his plasma screen, if that is what floats your unique, beautiful boat, then fair play to you. But you can expect a right slagging from the rest of us when you get back.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Wednesday's Question
Why does Google think it important for me to know that MSN mappoint says the quickest way to get from Haugesund, Norway to Trondheim, Norway is via Newcastle, England?
Waiting for the scent of regime change
Maureen Dowd, NYT, is spitting fire about the culture cops again, following a very tame Superbowl night (in comparison to last year's excitement with Janet and Justin).
In the article (2/6/05) Dowd worries about the increasing levels of self-censorship creeping into state-funded media. She should try living in Ireland!
I love sassy, dry-wit ironic Maureen. I'm not so fond of hysterical, outraged Maureen. In fact, I am getting a bit weary of the falsetto heights of the note the Liberal Media Elite (LME) keep hitting as they face the onslaught of hordes of victorious, red, Middle American heathen unsupported.
I mean, how scary can a legion of soccer moms be?
We have all seen bad times when our guys are dumped out of power and cut way out of the loop. But this is a time for listening to people to find out why this happened, not screaming at them for making it so. Those canny politicians who know this are hopefully half-way round what we call the 'chicken in a basket' circuit, engaged in this exercise. Maureen would do well to head off on her own little mission. After all, she is in the priviledged position of being able to 'be educated in public'. Unlike the rest of us, who have to do it in our own time.
The whole thing takes me back to a day in Dail Eireann in late 1994. After a series of Opposition by-election wins that undermined the government's hold on power, new TDs including Michael Ring, a rural, right-wing, populist operator from Mayo, arrived to take their seats. Michael, who ran a particularly effective vote-getting machine, was consequently accompanied by busloads of muck savages up for the day. They swarmed all over the Dail, and drank the bar dry, much to the distaste of his parliamentary colleagues, particularly his party colleagues.
Despite all that, I remember it as a glorious day. The FF-Labour coalition was in trouble and a faint new scent, a blend of regime change and pig slurry, wafted around us all. Pretty soon after that, the Rainbow Coalition took office. It would never have happened without Michael and the other by-election victors. Proving yet again that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I tell this story to put forward the proposition that the tide will turn, because that is what tides do. And it will turn on the unlikeliest event. As is always the case with the American fundamental/ religious right, they will not know when to shut up and consequently, they will ruin it for themselves.
Hopefully, their demise will be through the uncovering of a 'hookers for Jesus' scandal involving one of their most virulent spokespersons, or with media images of Limbaugh and Medved cottaging together. More likely, however, they will just take their attacks on public service broadcasting too far and incur the ire of the soccer moms. Whose views will be echoed by some muck savage populist, who just happens to have an effective, vote-getting machine ready and waiting.
And suddenly, the air will once again tingle with the faint scent of regime change and pig slurry.
As the Chinese proverb states:
If you sit by the river long enough, the body of your enemy will float past you.
So maybe take the hysteria down a notch or two, Maureen. And listen.....
In the article (2/6/05) Dowd worries about the increasing levels of self-censorship creeping into state-funded media. She should try living in Ireland!
I love sassy, dry-wit ironic Maureen. I'm not so fond of hysterical, outraged Maureen. In fact, I am getting a bit weary of the falsetto heights of the note the Liberal Media Elite (LME) keep hitting as they face the onslaught of hordes of victorious, red, Middle American heathen unsupported.
I mean, how scary can a legion of soccer moms be?
We have all seen bad times when our guys are dumped out of power and cut way out of the loop. But this is a time for listening to people to find out why this happened, not screaming at them for making it so. Those canny politicians who know this are hopefully half-way round what we call the 'chicken in a basket' circuit, engaged in this exercise. Maureen would do well to head off on her own little mission. After all, she is in the priviledged position of being able to 'be educated in public'. Unlike the rest of us, who have to do it in our own time.
The whole thing takes me back to a day in Dail Eireann in late 1994. After a series of Opposition by-election wins that undermined the government's hold on power, new TDs including Michael Ring, a rural, right-wing, populist operator from Mayo, arrived to take their seats. Michael, who ran a particularly effective vote-getting machine, was consequently accompanied by busloads of muck savages up for the day. They swarmed all over the Dail, and drank the bar dry, much to the distaste of his parliamentary colleagues, particularly his party colleagues.
Despite all that, I remember it as a glorious day. The FF-Labour coalition was in trouble and a faint new scent, a blend of regime change and pig slurry, wafted around us all. Pretty soon after that, the Rainbow Coalition took office. It would never have happened without Michael and the other by-election victors. Proving yet again that the enemy of my enemy is my friend.
I tell this story to put forward the proposition that the tide will turn, because that is what tides do. And it will turn on the unlikeliest event. As is always the case with the American fundamental/ religious right, they will not know when to shut up and consequently, they will ruin it for themselves.
Hopefully, their demise will be through the uncovering of a 'hookers for Jesus' scandal involving one of their most virulent spokespersons, or with media images of Limbaugh and Medved cottaging together. More likely, however, they will just take their attacks on public service broadcasting too far and incur the ire of the soccer moms. Whose views will be echoed by some muck savage populist, who just happens to have an effective, vote-getting machine ready and waiting.
And suddenly, the air will once again tingle with the faint scent of regime change and pig slurry.
As the Chinese proverb states:
If you sit by the river long enough, the body of your enemy will float past you.
So maybe take the hysteria down a notch or two, Maureen. And listen.....
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Tuesday's Question
Part the First
What are the things we waste trying not to waste our time?
Part the Second
Who was I listening to when I thought of this question?
What are the things we waste trying not to waste our time?
Part the Second
Who was I listening to when I thought of this question?
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