Mission · Improbable

To all chums. Between the studio and my latest project, I am exhausted and not able to catch up as I would like. I don't mean to be rude or boring, and hope to be more fun to be around in the coming months.

Meantime, here's an interesting something: http://dams.rca.ac.uk/res/sites/RCA_Secret/

...Also called Bird of Paradise flowers, are truly spectacular, all flamboyant spikes and flames! But when they wither, they just look crazy and angry-mean. And they're huge too.

They've become a skeleton posse in our dining room. I have to go in and get rid of them, and I'm in the house all by myself. Even the cats won't go near them. Fortunately the cleaner is coming in this afternoon, so if anything happens to me, at least she can clean up the remains...

Got in the taxi 2.10 this morning after a long show, exhausted. I knew the driver was different when he said, 'Don't worry, I'll get you home soon,' in a gentle cultured voice. We began a conversation, not lively, because I was so tired. I record some of it here, because the whole thing is just so fairy tale. Assume it began ordinarilly enough and then...

Him: I've seen miracles. But one man's miracle is another man's interesting story. I've seen other dimensions but to you it would just be something to talk about...

Me: No, it would be an interesting coincidence. I dreamt of another world this morning. Tell me about the other dimensions.

Him: What was the name of the place you went to?

Me: You would laugh.

Him: What was its name?

Me: Narnia I think, you know?

Him: Narnia! I went to Amenset, you know where that is?

Me. No. Egypt?

Him: The Egyptian otherworld. I saw it with my third eye. I looked through a ring of fire which widened, and then my head exploded...do you understand quantum physics?

Me: Not at all.

Him: It was a quantum leap. Do you undertand sub-atomic particles? (he then tried to explain what happened. I didn't get it at all) The ring of fire, I had seen it years before in a painting of a young boy, standing at the edge of another world. Other dimensions so close, like this (he closed his fingers together). I met Set there. Set is the god of evil. My family's from Greece, and the Greek and Egyptian gode are the same, which is why Set tested me. But you? Are you an Irish woman perhaps?

Me: My father is Scottish and his parentage was Irish. My mother is Spanish.

Him: Spanish, Spanish. And who are the gods of the Spanish?

This one took some thought.

Me: Long ago they were Celts, Spain was called Celtiberia.

Him. Then it will be the Celtic gods.

I chewed on that notion somewhat uneasily. He looked at me in his mirror, and I saw him properly for a moment, a white haired man with black brows and black eyes, intelligent and seemingly sane, though clearly not.

Him; It happens to us all. It will happen to you. I wonder how the gods will test you?

Me: Oh, I think that's happened. I suspect I failed...

Him (laughing very kindly) You don't know the gods' criteria for failure or success. How can you know?

He told me then about Amunset and the mountain of TetAmunset, I have never come across these words as descriptions of the Egyptian otherworld, are they made up words? Much of what he said did not fit in with my own scholarship, though granted that's not extensive. Perhaps he lives in a world of his own, a world made up of thought forms, ideas and words that are resonant to him, as my mother does - indeed, thoughout, I wondered if he was suffering something similar to her illness. Or perhaps he was just a magic man.

He got me home and I shook his hand. 'Sweet dreams,' he said, 'Narnia eh? There are worse places to go...'

I thanked him and left the car. When I got in, I crashed asleep and dreamt of nowhere at all.

Edited to Add I have discredited this poor gentleman's scholarship, with my own mistakes, staring at this entry, wondering what it was I had got slightly wrong.

The land he referred to was not Amenset but Amentet as I recall, and the mountain was Setamentet. Amuntet was indeed a name for the Egyptian otherworld, as well as the west bank of the Nile, and Setamentet is mentioned in the Papyrus of Ani in the Book of the Dead. It does not lessen the gentleman's possibility of being crazy, but he has not mistaken his research (Boot hangs head in shame).

I have not forgotten what today is.

But this is not my entry of thanks to those who fell in our wars; I will post that later. I have recently had a series of very vivid dreams and this morning's was the most intense, so I post it here for my reference, though I do not expect it to interest anyone else.

( Dream bears and going home )

So there it is. If I suddenly disappear, or get eaten by bears, don't worry - happens to us all one day. Please look after my love and my kitties, and don't let the fish starve. You'll know where I am.

'You are, but I can't do that. I mean, that face isn't you, isn't...' I shudder but I don't let her see.

KV35. That's where I lie, she says, with my face smashed in. I was the most beautiful.

'Callistea,' I try to soothe her, 'Please, don't cry.' She won't cry, she is as dry as dust I tell myself. But she sounds as though she is crying out of a broken mouth, words on the wind.

I who was the most beautiful, I, whom the gods adored, the true pharoah when he was too weak to fight our enemies, smiting with my beautiful face above them, lightning and thunder and the gods at my feet and blood below the gods and sand below the blood.

Now I am below the sand in KV35 where they found me at rest and smashed in my face.

They smashed in my face. I cannot breathe the air of the otherworld. I cannot speak my name before the gods. I cannot name myself, and no-one recognises my beautiful face.

'You are on so many medallions and pendants and rings,' I told her, 'On vases and in sculpture, you are seen everywhere, a treasure among men, and while these things survive, you will always be able to find your image and never die.'

But she didn't hear me. Even when I promised to kiss her perfect face as it is kept in the museum, she didn't hear me.

So I kissed her as best I could in KV35 under the Valley of the Kings: I set her broken arm across her ribs in majesty. She asks me even now among the ashes to kiss her, not for life renewed, or speech before the gods or peace in the underworld. The sockets of her skull, the ruins of her teeth and splintered bone move for me, pleading. I hear her and obey, and never let her see my pity when she says

Kiss me and tell me that I'm beautiful.

Copyright Debbie Gallagher 2009

is brilliant.

And Jonathan Miller's production at the ENO is a great rendition of it; translating the whole Italian ducal court into 1950s New York mafiosi land really works.

But the story is so horrible, I am never going near it again.

Late last night larians and I heard a fox bark so insistent and nearby, we checked to see if it was in the garden. We were staring out of our bedroom window. I saw nothing at first, then larians told me to look on our garage roof a few feet away. There he was, a real christmas card portrait, strong and well built, all white down his muzzle and bushy tailed. I didn't know they climbed. He just sat there under the pear tree commanding the garden, turning back to check us out every now and then. But he wasn't the one barking.

The culprit was a half-lit shadow glimpsed against the fence two doors down, where a poultry enthusiast named 'Chicken Jerry' keeps his coop.

Our neighbours on the other side are convinced that the broken down sheds and fences just beyond the back of our garden mark the den of a dog fox. I wouldn't be surprised if our resident garage sitter and his coop stalking chum made a home there. It's 6.13 now, and I am awake for no reason. The cats are clamouring to go out. They can stay put until sunrise or when I'm sure young Master Vulpes has gone to bed. They say foxes won't go for cats, but he's a very big boy.

Temperature though the roof, aches and pains, studio tomorrow. Cleaner coming today, must put some clothes on.

Got some work done. When I look out the back, lots of dappled sunlight is coming in through the trees in the grove. If I go out I'm sure I'll see fairies. Actually I wouldn't be surprised if I see the Emperor Ming and Flash Gordon coupling under the apple tree.

So I know my direction. I know the next thing I'm meant to be writing, great concept and I honestly believe very funky indeed. It needs time, it needs energy. It's moving slowly but that's how I write.

There's this other thing, another project I cannot give up. It makes no sense and has very little practical future. Presuming I could get funds for it, I would need a director, someone who a)could evoke The Tempest and b)could create wonders for a song. And even then, what is its point? A film entry for the Festival of Strange Shorts? (this festival should exist even if it has nothing to do with movies) It's crazy, but somehow I keep going back to it and adding scenes. I haven't even formatted the damn thing in Final Draft. Why can't I leave this alone when I have a far more important, far more fun and far more marketable project to focus on?

Because I'm ill and woozy. It seems my creativity kicks in most comfortably when my temperature's no less than 102 degrees.

I am still a tired mess, but less so. Gum infection gone, scrunched shoulder unscrunching, in general I'm getting better. I just need to ignore deal with my growing list of stuff to do. But while I have been feeling so under par, I have been watching TV. I am enthralled by 4 Weddings.

This glorious testimony to The Big Day hypnotises me. I have never wanted to be married but I love weddings, partly because they are full on parties, largesse and being beautiful, wowing the guests and being happy are The Point. Indulgence and loveliness for its own sake are allowed. I suspect matrimony's origin in chattel-selling enough to avoid it. But if we assume that today's wedding ain't about cruel history, let's party!

And this is where I come in, ready to watch 4 Weddings with a kind of joyful horror.
What happens on this show is that 4 brides to be attend and judge each other's weddings. The winner gets a 5 star honeymoon. And tharrr you go, easy.

Except that most are radiantly horrible and ever so alike. Oh, and Jordan has clearly impacted the nation's brides far more than I ever expected. This inflatable bride with her heeeeowwwj tiara and sparkly heeeeeooooowwwj barbiedress and her fairy tale carriage is clearly every woman's dream. It's like Weddings R Us from Disney Orlando. One of the aspiring brides hired the very same carriage as Jordan, she proudly told us. Her rival brides struggled not to be envious, but it was very hard on them. I was so alarmed I had to call larians in, to make sure I wasn't dreaming. He can vouch for said carriage being round and made of some lacy white metalwork with a pink seat inside. One bride, on trying it out, gleaned meagre satisfaction from its awful suspension. Considering what it's had to carry, I'm not surprised.

Right now it is clear that the preferred wedding dress is a kind of strapless A line business. It seems that most brides choose the voluminous Jordan route or this, and it's pretty inoffensive. But I wonder where the best friend/mother of the bride is for women who really don't suit their wedding dresses. It's not rocket science, if you're small, do not choose a dress that will eat you. If you're large, show off your delish boobs or your amazing spaceship- ready-to-ride arse, do not show off your bingo flaps in case your hubby mistakes you for a boeing 707. And speaking of hubbies, I've never seen so many dull looking grooms in my life. Shiny salmon waistcoats and buttonholes nicked from the cemetary next door, dear god, what is it with these men? It's like they're terrified to even try to look good!

My perfect trysting place? Butterfly house, don't come if creepy crawlies bother you. Be beautiful and don't wear much, on that day butterflies get to drink your sweat, thinking you're a flower, how sweet is that? Vows? Nah, got better things to do. My model will always be the fantastic Not-Wedding of greatbigshowoff and wildwinter May they always live happily ever after!

Happy Birthday cyanidemigraine! xxx

One of the most luscious gifts I got for my birthday was an Experience. Like those balloon flights/rally car races etc...mine was a perfume masterclass. It's only taken me 3 months to organise it. Clearly I'm on the ball.

I have always wanted to create my own perfume, a process full of witch's brew ingredients, words like Labdanum, Olibanum, Styrax, Ambergris, Benzoin, Myrrh, Chypre, all dripping with alchemical romance! I never want to see a real and graceless perfume lab. It has to be a magical place with curious alembics, sacks of herbs and spices, pots of incence and resin, glass jars full of mandragora and nightshade berries.

Alas, the class was not quite up to that level. It was a smello-session, 18 blended scents which you could blend and waft in combination on little sticks. The blends were generic to some degree, i.e floral, ozone, spicy, woody, where I would have preferred individual ingredients like rose or cedar, plus, excepting vanilla, it had no gourmand mixes, which is crazy when so many modern perfumes use coffee, chocolate etc. Still, 18 blends was more than enough for two hours.

Loved it but needed more time and drove the lady running the thing mad. 'Are you like this about everything?' She asked. I was dead honest with her and reassured her that yes, I really am this tiresome. In the end I created Spider, a strong cinnamon/clove perfume with musk and vamilla and cedar underneath. Though it's rather nice for winter, I want something creepier and a bit darker. More musky twiddling needed, so time to buy individual oils and mix them.

In the meantime, for the marketing campaign currently running in Debbiefantasy, I need a round bottle with a crystal spider stopper and a dramatic demi-goth model wearing nothing but purple eyeshadow, evening glovesnboots and a single spider on her neck. Hairy arachnids need not apply.

Autumn ugh!

Autumn's brahhhn innit? OK, the magic of the trees changing is cool, but this is England, not new England, and the magic is limited by drab skies and rain, though admittedly picking blackberries out the back while the rain laces all those spiderwebs is pretty. I sprinkle them on my bran (the brambles, not the webs) they taste great, I feel virtuous. Well done season of mists and mellow fruitfullness. Now get lost, I want the summer back!

Among the things I mourn with the onset of the cold are my slowly diminishing orchids. I love orchids. Not only are they beautiful, they're tough and hang on in there for months, unchanging and lovely. I don't quite get what folk say regarding orchids being hard to keep. As far as I can tell, most like light, heat, and being saturated in water every now and then, like humans but without the fat. Contrary to the dismal fate of my jasmines, busy lizzies, pumpkins and umbrella fig trees, this teeny phalaenopsis brotherhood turns out to be like the Bullingdon club with better manners and no money. They've survived the hood for a long time, mainly by sticking their wee veggie tongues out at cats, cleaners, sprays, fags, interlopers and secateurs. If they could turn their roots into art-driven tendrils they might well be spraypainting my mantlepiece with gang tags by now.

Suddenly the cold is proving too much for them. The creamy white one having previously always dropped one blossom at a time, is now ready to dispatch three in a go. The white and pink spotted one, always more robust, has dropped a bloom. At some point, when all their flowers have fallen, one is supposed to cut them right back. I can't release my inner conviction that the moment I do that, they'll be stark bone dead.

So I went to the baby shower.

And there was much trepidation.

Mum to be is bright, beautiful and fearsomely organised.

We saw the baby room which will also be her office: No uber pinkness, but walls decorated with blue and brown butterflies, mini-hangers bearing teeny designer jeans and pretty dresses, a white wood chest decorated with blue seashell patterns, mountains of fluffed up cushions, a massive cot with some kind of strange apparatus projecting stars onto the wall directly above baby's bed...I think music's involved too, but I'm not sure cos I was dizzy by then.

It's not a chintzy room, not kitsch or twee, but it was still terrifying in a classy girly way. There were long woven wood containers bearing four different kinds of wet wipes, aloe and chamomile, aloe and uh, I don't know, puppy essence, judging by the picture on the front, wet wipes for sensitive skins and wet wipes for ultrasensitive skins. When zombies attack and I poop myself, I know where to run to...

And then there was the baby shower itself, with the added side theme of a pudding party. Oh dear. I can usually make a decent apple and blackberry crumble, with larians help. Why then did this particular attempt choose this particular day to earn its name so vehemently?

I mean, I'm not competitive about cooking but I winced with embarrassment when I saw everyone else's contributions, cheeese scones, petits fours, cupcakes with icing faces on, marshmallow and chocolate cake, chocolate fudge cake, fruit cake, name the cake and you could find an example of it there - excepting a bunt. I was thoroughly expecting a bunt, but it never manifested. Mind you, I left early, so for all I know it appeared later. Everything was well thought out, beautifully presented, home-made with thoughts of love and gingham. And then everyone saw my effort, a psychedelic gravel gravy smelling of cinnamon. One guest couldn't help squawking 'What on earth is that?' before anyone could stop her.It was just like Home Economics at school.

Baby shower presents are scary. Nappy cakes, cribs and moses baskets and lotions and romper suits and baby shoes and breastpumps... We bought the Mum-to-be an hour of massage with the mightiest hands we know, belonging to a tiny Japanese specialist who can make your muscles relax just by looking at them funny. She does prenatal massage too, plus aromatherapy, facials, reflexology...Mum gets to choose. A nice present I hope. Not very practical, but then, neither am I.

Similar to the way I love weddings but don't care for marriages, I've decided that even if parenthood strikes me as a one way ticket to hell, I thoroughly enjoy baby showers. I like the whole specialness of a party dedicated to Parent and Baby...it reaches a kind of icing sugar peak from which one can jump in relief.

I think a steampunk breastpump/pistol would be the coolest gift ever!

My back tooth rrreeeeeeelly hurts. I took it to the dentist who x-rayed it and said it seemed OK. Now I'm on anti-biotics for a gum infection and so am now into double figures on painkillers. Won't be long before I'm into treble figures on dental work. Lovely.

The painkillers might well have turned up at the right time, not only for my gums but for my ears when larians took me to see Ligeti's opera 'Le Grande Macabre' at the Coliseum. Gad.Awe-inspiring stage work, tepid music, discordance can be great, sameness never is. Worth seeing but I was ready to go home by the time it ended.

I'm a redhead now, got bored with the blonde. Looks great, trouble is how it looks under studio lights cos tans don't really work with red hair. If I put colour on, I look like a lean tangerine. If I don't I am lardgirl. Feh.

Re filming, great quotes for filming, very cheap, but still beyond my pittance...well, almost. No holiday this year and I will have to work Xmas/New year.

My cats are happy, my partner is lovely. Our lives are only slightly marred by a packed up boiler.

And the tiniest teeniest element of bone-tiredness.

Occasionally, I even leave the studio.

My job, my job. My job is lots of fun. My job is OK paid . My job is run by a band of merry nutters. My job is full of rather pretty people. My job is quite trivial. My job is ego-oriented. My job can do some good but there's no guarantee. My job entails a goldfish bowl environment where every feeling is magnified. My job is full of non-constants and random factors. My job is emotions based. My job therefore is intensely subjective and not always fair or kind. My job is demanding. My job is exhausting. My job is consuming. My job is consuming me.

And though I love my job, it is time to look beyond to other projects. My work so far has been kindly but clearly cut to ribbons by someone who really knows what they are talking about. 'What we need now,' They say, 'Is footage of [smokingboot] out on the streets, laughing, shaking her hair back, natural and talking with passion.' Passion. What am I passionate about? And what makes me laugh? Bloody hell, I can barely remember. If you recall, please drop me a comment below and remind me, it would be good to hear!

Other projects wait patiently while I faff about for cash, then come home and collapse.

One tiny project is not for gain or furtherment, but because I couldn't help writing it, one that I would like someone to film. I have found some very gifted film makers who have the right kind of feeling for my project: They have created this 90 second wonder below:

http://www.vimeo.com/6468803

Beautiful. The only trouble is, while they have the right love of the sea and poetry, my little piece may well require an understanding of Shakespeare's Tempest to be filmed correctly. Indeed, it may well require knowledge of that play to make sense at all, a massive flaw! Having said that, I don't mind it not making sense as long as it captivates, but it has other massive flaws too; too talky, too stilted, I don't know how to describe each shot and more than that, what is it exactly? I haven't written it for anything, never a good start.I suppose there's a festival somewhere the finished article might be shown at...meanwhile there is so much to be done to more purpose than this. I feel guilty because this isn't a professional piece, I have not written it for a market. I wrote it for me.

Apologies to chums I haven't got back to, I need a holiday. Or a blow to the head. Something like that.