Charles Hess (greymalkn) – Armagh Project 2015

Poem I Wrote in Workshop

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Sat, 01 Aug 2015 11:08:33 +0000

A Night

And he pushes me out the door

And the night weeps on his shoulders

And the pavement pools slap at his knees

And passing headlights snap a glimpse of him

And he hears a tree branch snap, somewhere

And he finally approaches the white screened door

And the hinges squeal like excited pups

And mud spots litter the kitchen’s tiles

And he smells soggy, as wet clothing does

And his stained boots tumble down, unzipped

And more household squeaks follow him upstairs

And he tosses away his jacket and jeans

And the bed calls him down to the floorboards

And he gently sinks to his sore knees

And he crawls carefully under the blankets

And the rain taps away at the one window

And I, at last, take the reins for now…

The John Hewitt Festival Thus Far

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Wed, 29 Jul 2015 13:32:06 +0000

At first, I was a bit iffy about my poetry group with Niall Campbell, not just because the people in the “class” seem to have more experience with poetry than I do, but because my own poetry seems very out of place. Don’t get me wrong, the beauty of the works we look are unquestionable and I typically like to write in imitation of such delicacy as much as I can, but it seems to me that these wizened elders at the table with me are able to pull high degree artistry right out their bums. I spotted Niall Campbell at the Hole in the Wall last eve and was very tempted to strike up a drunken conversation, but I promptly decided against it.

As for the presentation, THANK GOD IT’S BEEN DONE!!! I’ve never been one for performing in front of any audience, large or small, so getting through such a feat takes quite a load off my slumped shoulders. I was a little perturbed afterwards, though; I think certain people in the crowd overlooked the detail that I was acting when I went up as James from Jeff’s play. The first man to approach me as we walked out to the reception said some incomprehensible words, but I think I heard, “I’ll let it slide, but watch yourself, boy.” Phew.

Return to Rehearsal

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Fri, 24 Jul 2015 08:23:13 +0000

It’s pretty weird to return to doing rehearsals; the last time I had to do them was for when I was in my elementary school’s production of Annie (I was in 1st grade). It was a pretty shite production, not going to lie. The other actors and actresses really weren’t feeling it as much as I was at the time, so I ended up having a fit and storming offstage so my agent could hand me my juicebox and reassure me that the gig was worth it.

That’s partially untrue. I didn’t drink juiceboxes in those days.

Nowadays, I think the rehearsal process is pretty valuable because, not gonna lie, I do get pretty nervous when performing in front of other people, especially when reading my own work (and especially when reading stuff that is somewhat sensitive). I’m more used to acting in film, which isn’t a challenge whatsoever; being on stage is a whole different ball game.

Audiences for Poetry

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Thu, 23 Jul 2015 08:37:25 +0000

For poets, the audience is a varied group that usually depends on the type of poetry that is being performed. Audiences for beat poets tend to move a bit to the rhythm of the words and sometimes the musical accompaniment; audiences for spit poetry typically vocalize their approval by snapping their fingers. In terms of my poetry…well, you kinda just have to sit back and listen, just as if you were listening to a story.

Sometimes I do humorous poetry which can warrant a laugh here and there, but (more often than not) the audience just continues to listen. Personally, I don’t think audience really plays that big of a part in poetry; I think that poetry is best absorbed when read silently on your own, multiple times, and very slowly.

Rioting Teens Vs. Nursery Rhymes

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Tue, 21 Jul 2015 15:06:37 +0000

I found a rather comical article from this past May involving some very interesting, though unorthodox psychological tactics against rebellious youths. A Belfast police van was “under attack” by a group of about ten drunk teenagers that proceeded to throw their empty bottles at the vehicle. How did the guards decide to combat this?

By playing ice cream truck music over their loudspeaker.

Apparently, after less than five minutes of hearing the unbearable childhood rhythms, the teens stopped their assault and retreated from the van, leaving the guards to proceed in their patrol duties. While it was looked upon as humorous by a number of the officers that immediately heard of the event, it was quickly considered a very unprofessional method in dealing with the prominent issue of youth delinquency. I’m no journalist, so I’m going to take the liberty of sharing my own opinion: I think this is actually pretty damn clever!

Derek the Driver

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Mon, 20 Jul 2015 08:58:26 +0000

Place yourself at the window seat of a bus in the middle of a tour of the Antrim coast, the wide sea before you and Scotland in the far distance; as you pass by the numerous glens and high cliffsides, your breath is taken away by the beautiful sights. That is what you see.

Meanwhile, in the background, you can hear the ceaseless chatter of a one Mr. Derek the Tour Bus Driver, dishing out an array of bad jokes and telling a number of Irish myths that can be somewhat difficult to follow, not because they go on forever, but because his lack of vowels (as well as my general disinterest).

Please, Mr. Derek, just shut yer trap and let me enjoy the gorgeous view!

“Whadaya call a woman that burns all her bills? A woman that burns all her bills? Bernadette! Ahhhh?”

Hello, Mr. Lynch

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Wed, 15 Jul 2015 07:58:21 +0000

Though all of the plays we’ve read since we got here have a humorous side to them, Martin Lynch’s tend to lean more in this direction (while also retaining a dark side, of course). I typically see this quite a lot in Irish film and sometimes in Irish poetry as well.

Purely out of curiosity, I’d like to ask him what he thinks about the works of Martin and John-Michael McDonagh, both in terms of film and play-writing. Martin’s works include plays like The Pillowman and The Cripple of Inishmaan and notable films like In Bruges; John-Michael has primarily directed works of comedy as well as some notable dramas, like the recent Calvary.

(Shrugs)

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Tue, 14 Jul 2015 08:06:56 +0000

Nationality, to me, is about as important as political division, the religious spectrum, or the Superbowl; I accept that others think of it as valuable, but I myself choose not to be a part of it.

I’ve mentioned this a million and a half times, but I “practice” Soto Zen, which means that I consider even the most prominent ideologies to be entirely trivial to the course of finding the good life (which, yes, is paradoxically an ideology in and of itself). However, this is a process of silence; that is to say, my thoughts on matters are kept to myself, not because I prefer to be neutral, but because I don’t tend to actually have thoughts on matters. I simply don’t know what is correct or what is truly good, so I move on in harmless ignorance.

Now, in terms of nationality (next to the other three things I mentioned above), there’s a more biological aspect, which can be quite significant to some. I am of Irish, Dutch, German, Polish (etc.) descent; I have no idea what that means. Ask anyone in Armagh what they think it means to be Irish. Their answers may be similar here and there, but you’re going to get a different answer every single time. There is no correct response. After that, ask them what 2 + 2 is.

So what does it mean for me to be Irish, Dutch, German, Polish (etc.)? I like to write, meditate, and eat donuts.

Probably not the answer you were looking for, but when has Zen ever answered anything?

In Addition, Here’s a Pitch

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Mon, 13 Jul 2015 11:01:52 +0000

A drunken and unpopular friar that is visiting a foreign monastery argues against the idea of religious asceticism as he stumbles to morning mass. #livealittle

Short Fiction Teaser

Charles Hess (greymalkn) — Mon, 13 Jul 2015 09:46:04 +0000

Here’s a little sampler of my story, “With Ale, We Fear No Evil”:

“Where, oh where is that blasted friar?” Mannix murmured as he exited the hall of cells. It was a cloudy day, as usual; every so often, the sky would spit down at the resident monks of St. Cullen’s, coincidentally whenever he stepped out. Almost everybody at the monastery was gathered or gathering in the abbey for the early morning mass, but the nigh-on middle-aged monk had a different task at hand before he could settle down for worship.
The grounds were barren and green, devoid of anyone else except the gardeners that scraped the grime from their sodden hands; they issued polite and quiet nods to Mannix as they passed him by on their way to the house of prayer. The monk didn’t notice though, for his mind was on other things, frustrating things.
He first checked inside and around the brewhouse near the west end, but it was as abandoned as it should’ve been (to some surprise). He then poked his head into the infirmary to find it empty and cold. After that, as he passed by the storerooms and the granary, he slowed to inspect the area for the missing habitué’s presence, but there wasn’t a single hint. Next, he quietly stepped through the door of the guest lodgings after remembering that a group of tradeswomen and their male escort were staying for two days on the way to the port of Leiffien. The escort snored alone by the door and the women silently cuddled together in a larger bunk; he counted four heads at the far end of the rising and sinking blankets, so all was as it should’ve been.
Finally, he dreadfully made his way to the butchery by the far side of the stables and the pigsties. He found the inside of the modest shed to be nicely kempt, its floors and carving tables just recently scrubbed, but something else prodded him then as he pinched attentively at his lips. He thought he could hear the echoes of song bouncing through the adjacent stable hall.
“In olden Kelf,
Right on the shelf,
There sat some bottles red,
But by the morn,
With colored scorn,
We had nothing but bread.
The merlot went to Conor
While the malbec went to Bonner,
The bar-bra went to Ennest,
Heavens me! Had I drank the rest?!”