Armagh Project 2015

His name was Colin. He is a young bartender, I’d say about twenty-two. He had red hair and light green eyes with freckles that covered his face. I noticed him as soon as I walked in the bar, and there was something about him that made me want to get to know him. As I walked over to place my drink order our eyes met and he gave me a little smirk. After I ordered my drink he right away asked what part of the U.S am I from, and before I could even reply he had already guessed. He said my “accent” gave it away. We chatted for a few minutes about what it’s like living in New York and how he would love to move to the U.S one day, which baffled me because I couldn’t imagine why he’d want to leave such a beautiful country. Our conversation ended with a handshake and a “ very nice to meet you.” But boy did I wish I asked for his number.

Mervin is an older gentleman,  probably 50s: balding with a bit of a ruddy complexion who lives in Belfast. He wore a blazer and a green sweater. (He looked a bit like Glenn Blake of the Writing Seminars department at Hopkins). We, the infamous we, were loitering around Carroll’s Souvenirs, waiting for Dominique to finish ringing up. I saw that Mervin was waiting for a teller to open up, despite the others being open and us blocking them. I moved, telling Mervin they were available, and apologized for loitering as an American. He said he could tell we were, but then asked me about our stay in Ireland and where I was from. He eventually told me that his girlfriend lives in Texas, that he has been over there several times, and that soon she will be coming over to Belfast. He wished me a wonderful trip, to have fun at the Hewitt Festival, and that “I hope that you find happiness here,” a very endearing wish. He then went to the register to pay for his umbrella. I went to check on Dominique, as she was trying to figure out what to buy to put her over 100 pounds and get a free item, she took none of my suggestions. She gave up on that, but before she could pay, Mervin stepped in and insisted that he pay for her. We were both shocked. His kindness made me feel his wish had a great deal of power behind it. After all of that, he left the store, forgetting to buy the umbrella. We passed him on the street again later, umbrella in his hand.

Thanks, Mervin.

Below please find the order that we will read our work on Monday as well as the casting for the plays.  Please take a moment and review your roles.  Please place revised drafts in drop box by 10a on Monday so that we can print out copies for readings.

Creative Writers: Be prepared to say a few words of introduction to set up for the audience the context for the piece you are reading.  You might want to write a few sentences down.  Please share them with us before you read on Monday.

Paint the Bluebells Red (Bryonna) Cast:

• Alis: Ally
• Brigette: Kimberley
• Catherine: Sharea

An Irish Proposal (Dominique)

Soldier On (Jeffrey) Cast:

• Erin: Bryonna
• Conall: Charles
• James: Robert

Untitled (Chris R.)

Untitled (Allie)

Understone (Carolyn) Cast:

• Devon: Jeff
• Kalin: Carolyn
• Laura: Dominique
• Seth: Robert

A Journalism Something (Caitlin)

With Ale We Fear No Evil (Charles) (or poem?)

My Little Firefly (Robert)

• Bridgid: Caitlin
• Dagda: Chris W.
• Priest: Chris R.

Eshe of the Green Isle (Sharea)

Below is your casting in the readings for tomorrow.  Please go into dropbox and review your role.  The drafts are organized by student name.  Use the most recent version.  Creative Writers will be reading their own work.

Love of  Sport by Chris Warman

Cillian: Charles; Aaron: Jeff; James: Chris Rizzo

Paint the Bluebells by Bryonna Edwards

Alis: Allie; Brigette: Kimberley; Catherine: Sharea

Mighty Wind by Robert Shillieto

Brigid: Sharea; Dagda: Chris Warman; Priest: Jeff

Soldier On by Jeff Bismayer

Erin: Carolyn; Conall: Charles; James: Robert

Understone by Carolyn Siu

Devon: Jeff; Kalin: Carolyn; Laura: Dominique; Seth: Robert

Amazing Grace:

Grace: Allie; Nora: Bryonna; Maud: Sharea; Mrs. L – Terri

My first day in Belfast was a mixed bag, to say the least. The train ride was lovely, I got a table to myself and food, and I was treated to gorgeous views of the Ireland countryside out my window. When I arrived in Belfast, my phone and credit card both stopped working and I ran out of money so I had no food all day. Ah, good times.

Then I was sent to shadow journalists covering the Twelfth parade. Every year, the parades commission decides where the Protestant organization can and cannot parade, and for the last couple of years they have not allowed them to parade up a Catholic neighborhood due to fear of violence. The Protestants protest this by parading up to the police barrier on the Catholic street, and it generally turns violent. Last year, it was peaceful, so the reporters were crossing their fingers that nothing went wrong.

A reporter, photographer and I squeezed up against a house next to the police barrier, so we were about 10 feet from the protesters. The parade marched up to the barrier, and people started shouting at the police. Within just a few minutes, bottles started being thrown. Suddenly, one of the protesters threw a ladder straight at us (not sure why they were so mad at the media?) which didn’t hit me but hit the other reporter and photographer both in the head. The crowd rushed straight at us and the line of police, and we had about 3 seconds before they were all going to hit us. The officers beside us turned around and ran, which was part funny and part terrifying. The photographer yelled “RUN!” and so we ran, jumping over gates next to the houses as fast as possible and then sprinting behind police cars in the distance.

Police cars and officers in full riot gear came tearing down the street to push the crowd back. After they got the line back under control, it was a waiting game to see if anything else happened. The crowd kept throwing bottles and we kept having to move backward to avoid getting hit with them.

Soon, we realized that some of the crowd had moved. We went back up the street and saw that protesters had surrounded the Catholic street on all sides, so there was no way out except through the crowd (which wasn’t really an option). We simply waited and tried to snap a few pictures of the crowd around the line of police. At one point, a girl got severely injured as a car backed up into her to avoid getting hit by rioters. That was an unfortunate sight to see.

The rest of the night was spent shivering (it was a very cold night) and watching the police try to push back the protesters. They used water cannons and threatened them with rubber bullets until they finally dispersed. As we left, one of the rioters threw a bottle straight at us. Again, I don’t understand why the media was a target for them.

So, that was my first day. My second and third days have been much less eventful. I have been writing up short stories for the Telegraph about a variety of topics. I got my first byline today on a short brief about an avian flu outbreak in Britain. Today I am writing about a 16-year-old who was arrested for riotous behavior as a followup to the parade. It’s a great experience to sit in a big-league newsroom in another country.

Is it possible to live off the money you make as a playwright? I know it all depends on how good you are as a writer, but what I want to know is do you get paid for the play and that’s it or for how many tickets are sold?

Often, I think that as writers we can stand as observers to the world around and record what’s happening. More and more I’m finding that I don’t have that luxury. I wonder what drove Martin Lynch to no longer be an observer but to get involved with the political activity around him. Was he aware of the risks going in and in what ways has Lynch’s political involvement with the IRA strengthened his work and polarized his work. I wonder how much of his own concerns and fears pop up in the work and how are they resolved and answered?

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.

In his new play My English Tongue, My Irish Heart, Lynch tells the story of a young couple—a Catholic and a Protestant—that decides to emigrate to England, while also telling the stories of those who have emigrated before them.

A common perception is that every writer puts him/herself into all of his/her works, whether as a character or as an influence. Is that the case with Irish Heart and the rest of Lynch’s works? If so, how does he usually like to incorporate himself? Directly, as a character, and/or indirectly, by appending his own experiences to his characters?