from all these brainstorms. And the rain that hit Navan.

     Today stormed when we were nearing the top of a very old hill; an ancient mound, even. I think Ireland was trying to tell me something. I tried to listen. I listened with sight set on glorious landscape.

     Armagh and I don’t speak the same language. It’s been distressing, trying to decipher what she’s handing me. I’m bombarded with images and folklore and history, but none of that really interests me. Perhaps I’m more concerned with the contemporary.

With the NOW. Because our nows are completely different.

     But I am scared to death about this story collecting thing.. That’s one of my identities, “story collector.” But what do I do? How do I approach the topic? It’s touchy, isn’t it? I feel like I don’t know enough about this place to write, yet. I’d be doing the location and its history a grave injustice by assuming I know enough for reflection.

This is what I have so far:

iPhone Ramblings:

How big is the moment?
We’re thankful for the small mercies.
What the High Cross Saw
Tax on Daylight [YES! There was an actual tax on daylight!]
     Tax on peace?
     Tax on prosperity?
     Tax on unity? Hm.
The Doors of Armagh [inspired by Katie ;D]
They’re facing each other. We’re in the middle. 
     The Protestant and Catholic churches “face” each other. I liked the personification of this      thought. Thinking about the buildings//architecture itself with LIFE in the center. I wonder the cardinal directions of each, too. And whether they argue over which faces the sun as it rises/sets.
The gods were in the rocks and rivers.

The theme of the writers’ conference is “Living Among Strangers- The Lost Meaning of Home.”
Free write in class: 

The lost meaning of home. Home has to be found, first. We are universes and you are home. What constitutes home? Comfort? Geography? People? Home across globe? Home in wires, walls. Nestled in rough soup and marshmallow kites. Who are strangers, but friends we haven’t met yet. That’s what the pub said. If my heart was a house, you’d be home. Home is in a poem. Weaving words and street signs. Walls, spine + the chipping away. Lemon cathedral worlds in hands. Tri-colored. Try colored waves; just like the waving flag. I think of home where I am, living among strangers because there are 7 billion people on this Earth and 7 infinity stories to tell, to behold, to cherish, to tie to your fingers so you won’t forget. You point to the East, West and forward because the sun rises and sets today.

Also,

The Catholics think the Protestants are ________.
The Protestants think the Catholics are ________.

     I’m fascinated with these blank spaces. It could be ANYTHING. A noun, an adjective. Assumptions. Truths. Mysterious. Eternal. What can I do with a blank space? The power of the blank. Of the space.

     Terri challenged me to think outside my medium of spoken word; thinking about the playwriting form in terms of dialogue. I feel like I should integrate what I do and Annie Baker. The potential relationship dynamics of these characters are escaping me; I usually work with neutral beings or ensembles. I’m almost afraid. 

 MIND OPEN, RIGHT?!

 I’m still obsessed with the idea of walls. 

 “Religion is a product of fear.”

     I’m thinking montage + poetic? Maybe some music, movement, or percussion! I have directorial images of a solo artist with auxiliary members or an ensemble piece.

Joshua fought the Battle of Jericho and the walls came tumbling down..
Art. Art was not a part of our lives. [How Mee of me:3]

Brain thunders. Brain storms. Brain rains.