autumn.

she - floating downward
amidst no cries, no tears shed
leaves fall – autumn comes.

- The First Day of Autumn (Autumnal Equinox), September 23, 2015. photo & haiku by Jeffrey James Ircink.

Thomas de Burgh

As I meandered through the rooms and corridors and up the turret of the centuries old castle, my mind was fluxing. Who walked these stone floors before me? What was their story? Did they have a good life? What did they look like? How did they die? My digital camera is snapping non-stop. Me in front of the fireplace in the great room. Me on the roof looking over Galway Bay. In the hallways. On the lawn. Everywhere.

Back in the great room, my eyes are drawn to the green moss growing on the walls. How did I miss this? It’s a castle – I suppose green moss would grow on the walls of a 600-year-old building. I notice a bookshelf and mirror and thought, “There’s a neat picture – I’ll capture my reflection in the mirror.” I turned to snap a shot and noticed the castle keeper’s (is there such a word?) wife watching me as I clicked my Nikon.

“Enjoying yourself?” she asked me. Leonie was her name, “I am, yes. Thank you. I was admiring the walls and thought I’d take a picture with my image reflected in the mirror.” “Oh really,” she said. “May I see?” I handed her my camera and she was obviously adept at using a digital as she knew exactly what to do. “Is this the picture you just took?” “I don’t know," I said. "It’s the last one I shot." "Ah yes, I see it now," Leonie exclaimed. "The moss on the walls – with the mirror reflection. It’s a pretty picture. But that’s not your reflection.”

I suddenly got that “excuse me?” look on my face and grabbed the camera from her. “I don’t think you're looking at the right picture. This is the –” My voice trailed off. It’s probably still wafting around Oranmore Castle somewhere. I stared at the picture I just took. There’s the moss on the walls and the bookshelf and mirror. But that's not my reflection.

There was a smile in the lady's eyes as she spoke. “Thomas de Burgh – that’s his name," she said. "Was his name. His father was Richard de Burgh, 2^nd Earl of Ulster. The family lived here in the mid-1300’s. Thomas died very young – I've read he was only 24. I see him now and then. Inside the castle – never outside. He’s shy. This behavior is unlike him. He must be coming out of his shell.” She paused. I wanted to respond but found that I was at a loss for words. 

Leonie seemed empathetic to my current state. “I’ll leave you to finish your tour of the castle. If you need anything, just – find me.” She smiled and turned to walk away – then turned back. “The fever. Thomas died of the fever.”

Funny. I was feeling a bit feverish myself.

(Photo taken at Oranmore Castle, Co. Galway 2009. Pictured is Leonie Finn, one of the owners.)

Christmas 2013

copyright © 2002 John Doe

 

 

A Very Merry Christmas to you all! God Bless, Peace & Love! 

Illumination: 30 December 2011. 3:15 p.m. Glen Mar.

 

as if etched on its surface,
the wall speaks to me in shadowy form.
a silhouette shown brightly,

constant - 

until it’s time to take you down.

and another Eve passes

For No Sake of Posterity.

For No Sake of Posterity

plunged into sights unseen
a foggy day sets in LA town
sub-conscious, conscious visions
fleeting, wafting into black
desperation. suffocation. congestion. self-annihilation?
fuck patience. fuck virtues.
i pity me.
“go away, bad dream!”
i need to put the bubble in the
jar – for no sake of posterity

Without beating this story like a dead horse, I blew out the retina in my only good eye January 11th while in Los Angeles shooting the short film, PASSER LE SEL S’IL VOUS PLAÎT, adapted from my short play, “Pass the Salt, Please.”. I had the smarts to walk into the Jules Stein Eye Institute at UCLA on the 12th and say, "I believe something's wrong", and was rushed into surgery - which, according to Doc McCannell and Doc Hu – went superbly. However, I’ve been grounded in Cali until the gas bubble in my eye dissipates. (I've been cleared to go home - I'll leave this Monday or Tuesday...by train. For the hell of it.)

Thus began my convalescence following post-retina re-attachment surgery – first at the home of my director-friend, Tatjana, near Beverly Hills, and then (where I’m currently at), at the foothills of the Angeles Forest in Tujunga at the home of my goddaughter (Donovan & Maria’s).

During those first recuperative days, I'd often go sit on Tat’s porch. Since I needed to keep my head positioned down 50 minutes out of every hour (and sleep on my stomach) for the first three days (this was reduced to 30 minutes for the next five days), I had to switch things up any way I could think of. Tat was snapping pictures of her son one day and I called her over and asked her to take some pics of me – one or two days post-surgery – with the intention of preserving some record of the state of my present physical and mental well being. These photos are testament to the living hell I endured, as is the above poem.

From my home to yours...Merry Christmas, Ditalini Press.

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one;
stronger than a magician ever spoke,
or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”

- Charles Dickens

sanguinity. (or "death's approaching")

hanging on.
that glimmer of hope.
optimism.
we are leaves.
this is what we looked like
three fortnights ago.
now we are dead.
private ceremony.
send flowers. ;)

August topic: My life as a stage direction.

Take any aspect of your life - your daily schedule, a hobby, a recent telephone conversation, an incident that happened to you the other day - and describe it as a stage direction in a play. No dialogue.

Here's an example:

(Sunday evening. SPOTLIGHT POPS on JEFF, who is sitting in a recliner in his bedroom typing on his computer. He's having difficulty concentrating. He's on a writing deadline, yet his attention is diverted toward a show on the TV - a series set in New York City in the early 1960's advertising world. His arm is still sore from spraining it on Friday and he can't seem to zero in on the best way to simulate a rainstorm for his play reading in the fall. He hears his brother's dogs barking. Someone must be at the door. The knocking continues and no one answers the door. JEFF gets up and runs downstairs and finds the house empty - mother, father and brother - gone. He goes out onto the porch and finds his parents and brother milling around, pointing to the street. A car ran off the street and hit a light pole. That's why the dogs were barking. JEFF goes back into the house. He still has that writing deadline to finish. And the TV show. And that arm still aches...)

Sort of like that. But more exciting. Make sure you italicize your stage directions.

"The Voice of Rain" by Walt Whitman

Lasting all of 15 minutes, a rainburst blew through my hometown. The sun has resumed peaking through the clouds...and now I have to write about it.

My father and I were sitting on the porch - we love rain. We heard a yelp from the garage and here this little toad fell out of a bowl my mother had picked up (it wasn't a "yelp" really - my mom's a farm girl...nothing frightens her). With a bit of assistance, we helped Mr. Toad on his merry way into the flower garden. Not sure if the rain brought the toad out the other way around.

The Voice of the Rain

And who art thou? said I to the soft-falling shower,
Which, strange to tell, gave me an answer, as here translated:
I am the Poem of Earth, said the voice of the rain,
Eternal I rise impalpable out of the land
and the bottomless sea,
Upward to heaven, whence, vaguely form'd,
altogether changed, and yet the same,
I descend to lave the drouths, atomies,
dust-layers of the globe,
And all that in them without me were seeds only,
latent, unborn;
And forever, by day and night, I give back life
to my own origin,
and make pure and beautify it;
(For song, issuing from its birth-place,
after fulfilment, wandering,
Reck'd or unreck'd, duly with love returns.)

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, 1891-1892

summer (it's coming).

A glimpse of the garden at Galena's Steamboat House.

"Give me the odorous at sunrise
a garden of beautiful flowers
where I can walk undisturbed."

- Walt Whitman

X hates “reality television”.

There is no such thing as "reality television" - which boggles X's mind that he can hate a few choice words or phrase that theoretically don't exist. As soon as the dumb asses who choose to air their private lives for the world to see know there's a lens focused on them AND as long as there are producers, writers and directors who are manipulating the dumb asses' "reality", it's no longer "real".

In X's world, this list is no longer. And, according to X, the world grows smarter.

"self-portrait".

i feel the impact of my

eye injury in many ways

sadness, anger, bitterness

my self-confidence is not

what it once was

it's affected my acting

it's affected aspects

of my personal relationships

if i glance at my

favorite portrait of
myself as a child, i think

'where has that little boy
with the beautiful brown

eyes disappeared to?'

i wish he was here but

he's gone forever

i am loved

unconditionally

by many and yet
my injury won't go away

as an actor in an

industry where image

is god i feel i am at a loss
i wonder what strangers think?

'do they think i'm ugly?'

but i'm the same person

inside as i was before
how soon the strangers forget

i am surviving but
i'm forever haunted.

hoarfrost.

Merry Christmas...from Jeff!

I think if you click on the image, it'll appear larger. :) Glad tidings to you all.

Time to be a critic.

Go to i swear i'm not like bob crane and follow instructions. You're all ar-tists - I need your opinion. Either comment on that blog or email me. Thanks.

Origami No. 24. "autumn".

A birch grove in Whitnall Park, Greendale, Wisconsin.

"Shipshit."

My compound word. I always thought this would make a great freight company name. What does it mean? Means 'we ship anything'. Am I doing this correctly? How 'bout, the opposite of "shipshape"? "Shipshit".

OK - subtopic to this subtopic. If you have a better definition for "shipshit", offer it up now.

Gotta love shameless self-promotion!

My short promo film for my latest full-length play.

"Foppotee". A simple-minded person.

(I'm late on the September assignment...see my previous post. It didn't dawn on me until after I finished to set this story in an Irish pub. Even the picture below is from my recent trip. But I was too lazy to rewrite it.)

A man walked into a coffee shop unaware that a book signing reception was in progress. Looking around, he recognized no one. Course he wasn’t from the area so why would he recognize anyone. The coffee shop was a-buzz with activity – people eating cheese and crackers, sipping wine, a violinist playing a cello in the corner (the cello player took sick), chit-chatting and – drinking coffee. In another corner there was a stately, middle-aged gentleman signing books. The author. The man walked up to the author and, noticing a few hundred books stacked on the table, grabbed one and paged through it.

"This your book?" asked the man.

"Yes," confirmed the author. "Would you like to purchase one? I'd be happy to sign it for you."

"No thanks." Uncomfortable pause. “What’s your book about?” asked the man.

“Growing up in Cambridge, Wisconsin.”

“Cambridge? Never heard of it,” said the man.

“It’s near Madison,” said the author. He returns to signing books.

Odd, thought the man. He imagined anyone could write a book about their childhood, particularly if they grew up in an interesting place. But Cambridge, Wisconsin? Never heard of it.

The man stated, "Now...if you had written about your life growing up in Madison, I might have found that interesting."

The author smiled. "But I didn't grow up in Madison. I grew up on Cambridge."

"Yes," said the man, "so you've said."

Madison would have been much better place to write about, the man thought to himself once again.

The author asked the man, “If you'd like some wine or cheese..."

“No thanks,” said the man.

“Well - enjoy your visit,” the author said and returned to signing books.

The man nodded at the author - and stood there for a few seconds. “Foppotee,” said the man to the author.

“Excuse me?”

“Foppotee,” repeated the man.

“What does that mean?” asked the author.

The man stated firmly, “Foppotee.” He paused. “Foppotee, foppotah.”

The author sat there dumbfounded. He chose his next words carefully. “You’re a simple-minded person, aren’t you?”

The man stared at the author. It's not known whether the man was staring at the author or staring through him. It made no difference.

“Foppotee, foppotah.”

Then the man turned, walked out of the coffee shop as quickly as he had entered it. The author stared at the door for a few seconds then returned to signing his books.

“Foppotee,” he muttered under his breath.

From Los Angeles to Waterford, WI, then to Waterford, Ireland and back again.

I wanted to apologize for being absent from the blog. My recent move from Los Angeles back to Wisconsin, and then my 12-day trip to Ireland has left me little time to write. That - along with finding work, getting acclimated to the Midwest after 11 years of being away, looking for a place to live...well, you get the picture.

I look forward to contributing to Ditalini Press once again. Such a wonderfully creative outlet, isn't it? In the meantime, if you're interested in reliving my trip to Ireland, bookmark "Good Craic. Welcome to Eire". I'll be updating it regularly. I wanted to put a more artsy, maybe scenic picture up here. But this shot was the one day I wore my kilt. I think it looks good - especially standing in a 15th century castle in Oranmore, Co. Galway, and sipping port in front of a roaring fire. There's plenty of of cool shots on the blog.

The trip was great. My traveling partner is an asshole and I wanted him to O.D. on his medication. Yes - that bad. Katie...wish you had been along with me. We would have had SO much fun...