Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: School's Out for Summer

The really weird thing about traveling somewhere… anywhere… is that when you first arrive, it’s not only filled with possibilities, but there is that one moment of dread. I don’t mean it lasts forever, but whenever I get off the plane one of my first thoughts is “Wow. I’m going to be here for X amount of time. (This is usually filled with an amount of time.) How will I make it the whole time? Did I bring enough stuff?” It happens when I go away for three days, and it certainly has happened on this trip, when I went away to Ireland for a month.

Now, the feeling never lasts long. Like I said, it’s quickly replaced with “hey, here’s a fun new thing to do! Let’s go do it!” And then I run off, usually until I remember that I should probably pick up my bags from customs. Fun times. 

Then there’s the reverse feeling, and it hits about this time. Ladies and/or Gentlemen… I only have about five days left here in Ireland. Less, actually. And I can’t believe the time has gone by so quickly. As I type this, we’re all sitting around, waiting for the breakfast room to open so we can go eat before our final class. When class is over… well, we’ll probably all go to a bar or something, but at some point tonight we’ll pack up our stuff for a second to final time, and then tomorrow WAY to early - not that I’d complain or question the wonderfulness of Professor Lister, who hasn’t graded us yet - and head off to Dublin for our final adventures, which includes the Writer’s Museum, the Yeats Exhibit, and the Jameson factory!

Quick note: The Jameson factor may not be a school sponsored trip, but I believe most people are going, and I’ve unofficially named myself the teacher on that particular leg of the trip. I’ve not yet informed Doc Lister of this. 

This trip is primarily a school trip, which means that most of our time was spent inside a classroom. That always adds a layer of routine to the trip, which I think is important. Once you have a routine somewhere, it makes it real, it makes it more like you live there, rather than just visiting. We get up. We go to breakfast. (which is nice since it’s free, but not as nice as when we were in Kulmurvey house) then we go to class.

At this point, I’ve spent my time writing two pieces, one the 26 page start of a novel called “Mars Kaplan Saves The World” which is a reworking of Mars and Kaplan Save the world, whereupon I threw out all of the characters and a good chunk of the plot for what I used in Nanowrimo. And I’ve written a memoir piece. Since it’s a workshop, the 9 other people in the class have done the same thing, which means I’ve also READ a bunch of pieces from people, including the fastest 30 pages I’ve ever read on a piece that was so good, I almost ate it out of sheer jealousy at this writer’s talent. 

I throw this in because I have been active on Instagram and Twitter, posting pictures of all of our fun, so it can get lost that we came here to hone our skills as writers. We did this as a legit class, trying to better ourselves as we would in any other class. It’s easy to get wrapped up in the pubs or music festivals, but yes, we are working hard. And today marks a great achievement. We’ve done over 90 hours of class at this point. Today is the final moment, the time when we can relax, and fully enjoy the few final days in Ireland…

It’s been a good trip. I’ve made some connections that I didn’t think I’d make, quite frankly. There’s one Graduate Student on this trip. Guess who? Guess how easy it would have been for me to essentially spend a month alone, but no one let that happened. And I don’t know if I can let anyone know how grateful I am that happened. 

So, that’s way too much smarm for this early in the morning. Let’s head off to class, and then, to whatever Dublin has to hold for us! I’ll post a proper goodbye to Doolin… especially the Doolin Donkey… later. I just can't believe it's almost over. 

Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: The Doolin Folk Festival

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I heard the phrase “Doolin Folk Festival.” On the one hand, it’s a festival, filled with music. On the other hand, it was Folk, which can provide some really great music when it wants to (Hello, Eddie from Ohio) but I’ve never been to a festival that dedicated it’s entire lineup to Folk. But, as I’m in Doolin, which is a pretty big music capital (There’s live music here every night) I decided what the hell, and I purchased the tickets back in May when I first learned about this event. 

Then I sorta forgot about it until we got to Doolin. Then it was impossible not to know more about the folk festival, because there are signs for it everywhere. It’s a pretty big event. 

I got my first preview of the event on Friday evening. As it turns out we can hear most of the bands from our lodge, down the road from the infamous Doolin Donkey. I imagine he gets to enjoy all the free music he wants all the time, but mostly doesn’t care because he’s a donkey who’s happy with his patch of grass in which to chew. The first band I heard was called “Moxie” and I was told it was pretty good. It was. I heard most of the set without having to leave the comfort of my own couch. Well, the rented couch I can get to if I get into the common room early enough. 

However Saturday, I had my proper ticket, and I made my way into the Doolin Hotel and the little courtyard in the back that didn’t seem big enough to hold all those people and bands until I actually walked through the doors. Turns out the place is pretty huge.

Firstly there’s the smell… so delicious. There was a place set up that sold food, not unlike American festivals in that it had burgers and hot dogs, but also a giant pot cooking curry and had just finished with their jumbalaya. It was amazing, and I wanted to go devour everything right away, but I managed to hold myself back since I was going to a music festival, and I figured I should probably listen to some “music.” 

The festival grounds themselves were pretty cool, too. There were the bales of hay all of the place for people to sit and relax. Near them were these huge drums filled with wood so when it got cold, people could start fires and warm themselves. And the tent! The tent was fit for a king. It was huge, with a little section off to the side filled with couches and chairs and lights. It honestly looked like a wedding reception tent more than anything else. There was even a little electric fireplace to bring in the homy atmosphere.

The bands were pretty good. Mostly it was traditional Irish music with some real folk music thrown in for good measure. To be honest, I didn’t listen to the bands too closely when I first showed up, mostly just walked around, watching people. There were all ages there, from the young to the old, everyone just enjoying the music and having a good time. The festival started out small, but as the day wore on it got bigger and bigger. 

One of the cooler parts was the second stage called the “White Horse Sessions” that was more like a typical bar experience with a stage and people sitting down, drinking. (And there was plenty of drinking, but it was expensive. After a while I had to decide between beer and food, and that’s not a choice anyone should ever have to make. the beer was delicious, though.) 

In the White Horse Sessions I sat through two bands: Goldfish Syndrome and A Band Called Wanda. Which basically means I sat through two fish based bands, both played folk music of their own writing. They were both really cool, mind you. The best part was that A Band Called Wanda had these brass instruments they kept playing, so halfway through the song the singer would bust out a trombone and start playing it, which sounded good with their drummer who just sat on a box to lay down his beat, and the guitar that sounded fantastic. All in all, a great experience 

Sadly, I’m still getting over this death plague so I didn’t get to stay for very long following the bands. Which is a shame, because the festival itself was going on until  1 a.m., for almost 12 continuous hours of sheer fun. 

And, of course, on our way back we did wave to the Doolin Donkey. Who was still in his field, chilling, listening to some music. 

Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: The Doolin Donkey

Doolin is an interesting little village. Not really big enough to be considered a town, but not small enough either to be considered “the middle of nowhere” it fits in that nice little pocket where people seem to be roaming through all the time or stopping to admire a few things on their way to another place. 

Also, a lot of cows. The cows may outnumber the people that actually live in this town. And if you think that at any moment I feel bad about eating steaks or burgers when this near to so much livestock, it’s only strengthened my resolve. These cows are jerks, constantly mooing and judging me. Yeah, I see you, staring. That’s right, tonight I dine on the sweetest steak… YOU!

Sorry, got a little carried away there.

Actually, Doolin is a nice little area, situated close to the Burren, which I’m not exactly 100% what it is, but it’s beautiful, like the rest of Ireland itself. As near as i can tell most of the town is situated around this one road, and they have not invested completely in a “sidewalk” so the road is only partly functional as throngs of tourists travel down the middle of it, slowing traffic from “it’s usual, “let’s see how fast we can get on those back roads” to a casual, “hey, tourist… why are you in the middle of this road!” 

Also, there are pubs. A lot of pubs. And they all have live music, which is awesome. 

We tried to take a tour of some of the Burren Yesterday. We saw some nice areas, but to be honest with you, it didn’t feel as great without our hermit guide, Dara, telling us something folksy about each area. We got to see one of those bone cages again, but it was all roped off and we weren’t allowed near it. And then there was the walk, which was about a two hour hike. I made it about halfway before I turned around, mostly because I’m still working off this Irish Death Plague, and also because it wasn’t as scenic as the rest of the tour.

In addition to these pubs, speeding cars, many backpackers, and cows, is the Doolin Donkey. 

There’s no lore about the Doolin Donkey. He’s actually quite frankly that, a Donkey who sits in a field, staring ot as the cars pass by him. Usually he’s eating. There doesn’t seem to be too much special about him. He’s very content to just sit in his little acre of land, eating. I haven’t seen him go in at night. He just sits there. Chewing. 

The Doolin Donkey seems to have it all figured out. The wall that cages him into his lush greenery, filled with all the grass and flowers he can eat, doesn’t seem very high. I can step over it without much trouble. (Not that I have. The Doolin Donkey seems happy that he is alone in his little caged off area.) But he sits there, every morning, eating grass. And every time we return from school, he’s sitting there again, eating grass. He doesn’t really do much. Once I saw him lying down, and I swear that one other day I saw him trying to stare down a tourist that was looking at him just a little too long. The Doolin Donkey loves his space. 

I’d like to feel we’d all be better if we were like the Doolin Donkey. Just sort of relaxing. Not really worried about what’s going on around us too much. He’s one cool Donkey, and he doesn’t need a complicated backstory or the ability to surf. He just likes is space in the field. Keeps to himself.

Not like those jerk cows. 

Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: Rituals with a Hermit

This week, on the Aran Islands, is a very different experience than I’d expected. I’ll be honest with you, I’m not sure what I really expected… I’d only heard that we were headed to a tiny island off the island that was the tiny but slightly bigger island that makes up Ireland with very limited wifi or connection to the outside world in general. I wasn’t sure what that meant. I’ve sort of talked a little bit about the weather… by weather of course I mean weather that could be described as windy in the same way that a 20 foot python could be considered a snake. I’ve talked about getting sweaters, and that if you asked me, “Hey, Michael, will you be wearing sweaters at the start of June” I probably would have been all like “only if I want to sweat off those last five pounds.” 

But over the past few days we’ve had some very interesting experiences. 

I should point out that we were given our own personal Yoda, that is a man that knows just about everything about this Island from the history of it to the mystical creatures that may or may not be living here. His name is Dara, and he used to be a Catholic Priest before becoming a Hermit, and eventually, an Island Guide which sounds more exotic than it actually is. Because this island is cold. WE’ve been over that.

Dara first took us to an old church that is in the back of this property, and gave us a little bit about the history of everything, including the history of religion in Ireland, which was less about Christianity and more about exploring the natural world through supernatural means. Then we walked up the long trudge (and trudge is the only word for it) where we went to Dun Aengus, a cliff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. 

One of the things he talked about while we were there was using the cliff to realize our sense of smallness in the grand scheme of things. He was right. I stayed up there longer than most people, and I have to say… it’s amazing. The day was cold, windy, and rainy, so it wasn’t an easy trek up the mountain. The rocks were slippery, and if you found the wrong foothold, you’d trip. I don’t want to overplay it, it’s not like we were in any danger; it was just a long trip. 

I stayed up there for a little bit, just looking out at the Ocean. I stayed up there, just shutting off my brain and thinking for a little bit. I wish I had more to say about the experience, but I really don’t, actually. It was cleansing. I can’t put it into words. I even took the cheesy picture of my feet dangling off the cliff. That was less spiritual, but still a lot of fun.

But that didn’t prepare me for what happened next. 

Dara took us to a bunch of sites across the island where ancient rituals were performed, and he showed us how to perform them. One of them involved tying a ribbon on a tree in order along with something in your heart to help. Another involved walking around a well seven times, each time putting a pebble in a certain location, then blessing yourself with the water in the well. It was an interesting experience. The walk cleared my head, and the act of placing the stone down really helped punctuate what I was thinking. And when I say “Well” I mean natural well that was below the water. 

There were other rituals as well, I won’t go into all of them here, because some of them were deeply personal. And they all were sent to the same purpose, to make you more aware of how you interact with the planet in general. He was very much on the idea that we need to honor the earth as we do the divine. It was all very interesting, but it was mostly just the idea of connecting with a very ancient land. I like that idea, that each little ritual is that important. It’s easy to get wrapped up in the idea that a ritual has to be performed a certain way, but the way he explained it, it was just a matter of learning what needed to be done, then doing it for ourselves.

They involved looking at standing stones, and making wishes using a silk scarf. I could describe them all here, but honestly… I’m not going to. They are things that need to be experienced, not described on a blog that concerns itself what wizards end up doing when they all meet up for their annual convention in a fantasy land. 

That’s one of the bigger things I’m learning on this trip as opposed to others: Learning to be for myself. Not in a selfish way, mind you, but in a way that reminds me that too often, I do focus on other people. Those rituals were important to me. 

        I'm not really sure where to end this particular blog post. So I'm going to end it here. this was a deeply personal experience. I almost didn't write this, but I feel like I have to, because this is a big part of my experience here in Ireland. It's not all pubs and music festivals! 

Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: How We Write

I suppose I should talk a little bit about why I’m here in Ireland, other than to grace it’s fine drinking establishments and historic sites with my presence, thus giving important context to future historians about why I wrote about it so much in my future memoirs. (They’ll want to know a lot about me during this transitional time before I’ve taken over the world.)

I’m here for a writing program. A Creative Writing Program. You see, back when I was beautiful, I wanted to be a writer. Unlike my other plans that fell through when I was no longer beautiful (and achieved true gorgeousness) I still want to be a writer. It’s one of the reasons why I started this blog, and why I keep trying and failing to do NANOWRIMO, and why I watch so much Cartoon Network. That last one may be unrelated, but I’m going to go with it because this is my Blog, and if you want to make up silly reasons you should have your own blog.

The program is run by Lisa Lister, who’s beauty and intelligence is matched by the fact that she has not yet given me a grade for the class, because it’s not done just yet. The people in the class are busy writing away, fiction pieces and memoirs. It’s also run by Irene Graham, who I’m pretty sure knows just about everyone not just in Ireland, but planet Earth, as she keeps dropping nuggets about meeting people like “Tom Cruise” and “U2” but only back when they were in their Joshua Tree Days. I half expect a folksy tale from her about meeting a young man named Barry O’Bama, and that she just knew one day he’d be going far.

The past two weeks focused heavily on story development, something Michael Bay refers to as “what?” This week has kicked into high gear as we have started turning in work. Because, I’m so handsome and wonderful (and I signed up last) I decided to go first in my fiction piece, a reworking of something I tried to do for Nanowrimo which is now entitled Mars Kaplan Saves the World, and is about that, Mars Kaplan. Saving the World. It’s about 8000 words long so far. Some of them are pretty good words. 

Now, what comes with turning in the work is the workshop, whereupon everyone will read your beloved first draft, and let you know what needs to be fixed.

I think of it like a home inspection for a house. When you get a home inspection for a house, the house itself could be carved from granite, brought up to code, and even have some features installed that don’t yet exist, like replicators and transporters. but the guy doing the inspection is going to look at that one light switch that doesn’t turn anything on because it’s secretly hooked up to a garage door in Japan, and let you know how the entire house could, hypothetically burn down if there manages to be a Godzilla attack at the same time a Cloverfield Monster is attacking America, and you flip that switch. 

Workshopping is a little like that.

Your readers (all good) will hold a mirror up to you work, in which you’ve held up a mirror to society, (which is a lot of mirrors) and tell you why it’s great for about twenty minutes. Just as your ego hits that apex that means you’ll not be walking out the door so much as buttering up your inflated head to slide it out the door, they start in on what “needs work.”

The thing is, as much as you can joke that the “needs work” is difficult to hear, it’s the most important part of any workshop. Any good reader (and this class is full of some fantastically wonderful readers. And they don’t read my blog, nor do they grade me, so this isn’t just sucking up, this is pretty genuine. Imagine that from a blog that’s mostly about robots) will tell you what doesn’t work, because they WANT SO DESPERATELY for your piece to work. They want you to go out, write the next great American Novel. Only a jerk will try to get you to write the next great Canadian Novel. (And there are no jerks in this group. Except that one cat who joined us for a little bit. Scam Artist.)

I did survive my first round of Workshopping. I got some great feedback, mostly in the “hey, double check your grammar, dude” type way, which is important, because I’m pretty terrible at double checking my own grammar, as anyone who reads this blog knows. I’m pretty good at double checking Kelsey Grammer, who is a beloved actor but has very little to do with writing. They also had some great story notes, which is a reminder to make things universally beloved, like Kelsey Grammer, instead of just Michaelly Loved, which is also like Kelsey Grammer. I guess he does have something to do with Writing.

Anyway, the experience is wonderful. I’m looking forward to the next week and a half (is that all I have left… that’s a LOT of pubs… I mean, writing institutions… to hit up before the end of the day) as the rest of my time here unfolds. I’m looking forward to further developing my writing, which is why I’m here.

Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: Comfortable as Sockfeet

I feel that if I describe to you where I’m staying and what’s going on right now, you’d take one look at me and say, “hey… stop playing on everyone’s stereotype of what Ireland actually is.” But… when I say Ireland (leave out the magical leprechauns, potato famine, and Lucky Charms) take that image in your head. (Except you, Kim. Yes, I know you went to Ireland before me.) That’s where I am right now. 

The Kilmurvey House is a tiny Bed and Breakfast on Innis Mor. To our right (facing it… I should probably orient you a little bit since you’re not here.) is a tiny little collection of shops. I keep using that word “tiny.” It’s been three sentences in this paragraph and each one has contained the word “tiny.” Now it’s four. But when I say “tiny” the Bed and Breakfast is about the size of a large house in America with a little part put on so we can go to class (in our new socks… more on that in a minute). The tiny collection of shops is that… a place to buy coffee and whatever they feel like serving along with two places to buy sweaters (more on that in a minute) and a place to buy celtic goods. Oh, and a place for candy and stuff, but that’s attached to one of the sweater shops, so I don’t want to be too confusing. 

Everyone is super friendly. I already bought a sweater (or jumper) and I’ve gotten a lot of compliments on it, not just from the people selling it to me. It’s to the point that I honest considered buying a second one, but they’re way too pricy. I did however, buy something else way more useful… socks. Big, thick wool socks. As I mentioned, our classroom (which incidentally is the only place to get wifi in this location, which is also the reason I’m not going to be posting these until the week after they all happened) is located attached to the house. Which means… no shoes for THIS guy learning to write. I’m wearing thick socks and that’s all I really need out of life right now. It’s pretty glorious. 

The house is run by the sweetest woman who so far has done laundry for me and provided us with a home cooked meal the night we got here. By home cooked I mean everything was made from scratch. I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t somehow created the chicken from ingredients she harvested from the land herself. She’s the nicest woman, and speaks with a thick Irish accent. And I really have no idea when she actually sleeps, she’s been running around all times of day, cooking, filling the fireplaces with coal to keep things warm… it’s amazing. And the house itself… it has all the feeling of a house you’d actually live in. There’s one room for the television. Squeaks in the floor. Quirks that you don’t really complain about, you accept as part of the charm of the house.

At night we headed into “town” and to this tiny pub called Jo Watty’s. Yes, there’s that word again. Tiny. But it’s clearly a place all the locals hang out, I saw the woman who sold me two shirts who jokingly asked “why aren’t you wearing your new shirt!” and then laughed. I saw three of the people who were staying at the Kulmurvey house independent of our group, who asked us how we were enjoying things, told us stories of the island, and complimented me on my jumper. That’s what I was wearing instead of my new shirts. 

So far, this place has been incredible. I really underestimated the pure beauty of Ireland, and I really didn’t think I’d love it this much. I pointed out several times as a joke that I may not return to the U.S. I remember in England, I cried a little bit on the tarmac, waiting for the plane to remove me from English soil. (Haven’t gotten to that part yet in Bad Shakespeare Takes England, returning in July.) But… I don’t know. I feel a more special connection to this place. I’m going to have a much harder time leaving it. It makes me feel comfortable. One of my friends said it best to me a little while ago… I never felt out of place in America. And I never did, I love America, it’s the home of the most entertaining political system in the world. This isn’t some twisted declaration that I’m leaving or anything like that. But I never felt out of place in America. But here…. here I feel comfortable. I feel as comfortable as sockfeet. 

Bad Shakespeare Takes Ireland: June 1st and Wool Socks

I’m currently sitting by a roaring fire, wearing a nice toasty sweater with my thick wool socks on, typing at my computer. Quite frankly, it’s the perfect winter day. I couldn’t be cozier right now. Certainly I didn’t think I’d every use the word “cozy” to describe the first day in June. And yet, here we are…

Yes, it’s a bit cold here on the first day of June in Innis Mor, as a pretty big storm has rolled in. So strong that we could hear the first bit of it as it hit early this morning. The wind picked up and at one point, it was raining sideways. Naturally, the faculty member and I decided it would be a perfectly find day to walk to the beach.

Ok, so first things first, it’s never a fine day to walk to the beach when it’s cold with gale force winds and you wear glasses. you miss a good portion of what’s out there, mostly because it’s cold with gale force winds, and you have your glasses being covered with long hair and wind. It was cold. COLD. But at the same time, the beach was actually kind of nice. 

Naturally it wasn’t crowded. By that I mean “There was no one even close to being on the beach.” But the sand was all compact, and the waves were coming at a steady rate. The area we were standing was actually a little protected because of the bay, but further out it looked like “oh holy Poseidon why are you doing this to us?” 

We further walked around the beach area, finding an old abandoned road where it started to erode. Actually it wasn’t bad for just walking around and exploring, it would only be dangerous if say, we were going to drive on the road. But it led to this cool little dock area where we could see further out and really explore the area. It was most excellent, to quote Keanu Reeves back when he was cool.

Of course, our little adventure wouldn’t be complete without some hot chocolate. And coffee. Because we were soaked, almost completely. I rewarded myself for my little journey by getting myself a new sweater, mostly because the sweaters I brought were all hey I didn’t bring any sweaters because it’s June 1st, and who brings sweaters on June 1st when it’s supposed to be Summer in everywhere except Australia. 

I really should have listened to the person who said “hey, it’s colder than  you think, just be ready for that.

I was woefully unprepared.