The Unfinished Art

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

Cherry Blossom Moon

She stood. Her stick thin arms were outstretched at first, she was so sure that I would run into them. Her raven-black smile, her pigeon hair, her caterpillar eyes. She stood, so sure of herself. After all, she offered everything, did she not? Everything I’d ever wanted, right there, laid out in front of me. And the night was ever so dark around us, my hands still vibrating from the long drive, my eyes tired, and the first spring full moon blooming in the sky like a cherry blossom. And I’ve seen temptation before, I’ve felt the devil pull at my soul, I’ve felt her close her fist around my heart, squeezing. But now, there she was, meeting me as an equal. Not a temptress, not seducing, not with force, not with cunning deceit. No, no, she stood as an equal in the hollow thicket, not beckoning, not teasing. Waiting. Sure of herself. Awaiting. Me.

She had crawled down from the branches of the witch tree at the back of my garden - the one that no one had dared touch in centuries, its dead skeleton still pointing at the sky as if to castigate where the demon had fallen from, where the accusation still lay. And her crawling was like a wounded deer. I felt pity, not for the first time. Not for the last.

And then she stood, smiling. Her teeth were made of maggots, and her dress was bark and moss - dead, all dead. But she knew that she had what I wanted.

We stared at each other, her smile slowly fading as my strength faded. Of course I would resist. The temptation rose in me - there it lay, there it lay, so simple, so easy. A pact, a pact like the ones that countless have struck before me, and countless will again. So easy, so easy, come, come… all you’ve wanted, awaiting you, just move, just step towards her, just do it, just do it, just do it do it do it. A covenant was to be struck, and I at last would stop the searching and the journey and I would be. Be. Be. Be with my children again and find my home again and do all the things I had wanted. So easy, so easy.

Tears fought their way out of me, and I grasped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles were as white as her decaying flesh. And her smile faded and her outstretched arms no longer felt inviting, now they were reaching, reaching, reaching. And why she screamed. She screamed why, why, why do you not take the bait? And I sat crying. I did not know.

Have you not suffered enough? Have you not seen the world crumble enough why do you deny yourself the sun you need to grow and the rain and the air, why do you choose the desert once more, when I offer you fertile soil, yours for the taking?

I did not know, I did not know.

I closed my eyes, my strength had faded, I was lost and I was ready to give in. To give in to her and get it all. And I did not.

When morning came, I walked to the spot where I had seen her. Grass bent, and a dead dandelion. That was all.

[ronikamerl]

That Dastardly Thing

It sits. It sits and it creeps, and you can’t smell it or feel it or catch it or taste it or in any way, shape, or form influence it. It sits in its dark little corner. It might be just there, just there, hiding under that little bit of shadow. Can you see into the shadow? No? Well, it may well sit there. And it’s waiting. It is waiting for you, waiting for you to make the move that will reveal it. It’s been cheering you on from the moment you started. From the moment you first said - yes, I will be this. I shall be, I shall be, I shall be an artist. It’s been waiting in there, hoping and praying and cheering you on with its silent voice, it has been crying and shivering with anticipation for you to make the move that will bring it forward. 

We never know where it comes from, the thing we call success. But let me tell you this, my dear, it will not come if we force it out. Whichever corner it hides in is not for us to know, we do not know which corner it will inevitably crawl out from. If we try to coax it out with our honey voice, we fail… but if we let it come on its own, this weird and strange and dastardly thing called success… it always shows up.

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

It is becoming ever more clear to me that a lot of y'all need to cut off a lot more people... holy Lord the stories one reads.

Cleanse thy environment, brother

Get rid of them toxic motherfuckers, my sister.

Never speak to any of them again. Yes it's really that easy my non-binary kin.

Just stop texting first and breathe the fresh air.

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

Elysium

And shall we meet in an afterlife, 

Let our souls collide

In some great elysium

Like the song predicts

Where Achilles loves Patroclus 

And Romeo his Juliet

And Rose saved her Jack

Because in this life, amour, 

Je pense que non

I think the time has passed

And the hope has left

So I shall run to you

Faded sepia tones 

On the edges of our vision

And I shall run my hand through 

The fertile grain

Geraniums blossoming

The one I took from the castle 

In Ireland

And I shall come to you then

In some kind of afterlife

Some kind of elysium

Some kind of beyond

Because in this life

Amour

Je pense que non.

[ronikamerl]

With the Olympics coming up and some sort of big soccer thingy apparently happening, I wonder do people invest so much time (and moneyy) into sports because there's a clear(er) structure to it than to the arts?

You can't "win" at writing/experiencing a novel. You can't be the world champion at crying at a play. You can't be the "best team" of crochet enthusiasts.

Is that it?

Are the arts less popular than sports because they're inherently subjective and therefore you can't just turn your brain off and say "oh the guy wearing green won because he crossed the finish line first" or "the woman did the flippy thing best, she's clearly the best, no discussion, I don't need to have brainwaves about this."

[ronikamerl]

I am so full of anxiety because I am not writing what I'm supposed to be writing, so that the thing I'm actually writing is not even getting the full "guilty pleasure" experience because there is no pleasure in it and just guilt.

[ronikamerl]

And packed bags

And the world at your feet

And out the door you go

But look back, please, won’t you? 

To that familiar melancholy. 

That sweet sadness

Like when they call your name

In a Starbucks you’ll never return to

Like watching Notting Hill on a rainy night

Or Oscar Isaac’s face

Or that feeling when you cross the Thames

Sunshine on a Monday morning

And a house with a blue door 

On a quiet, cobbled street

In some city somewhere

You’ll never pass it again. 

So look back, please, won’t you? 

To that home on the hill

To your packed green bag

And the man who knows how much it means

But you’re 

Free. 

What a price to pay.

[ronikamerl]

Today I am NOT a Writer

I have had the entire day to be creative today. I've had time, all the housework was done, all the tasks and the admin and the little bits were taken care of - in short, I've had the entire day to just sit here and create and work and write and be who I really want to be.

And nothing.

Nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

Nothing came out. I have a few projects that need attending, and well, I tried doing something for each and every one of them, and I just could not. It is now 20 past 5 in the afternoon, and I have done nothing.

Which is gutwrenchingly and eye-pull-out-inlgy frustrating. I've got so much I could be doing! I've got a novel, I've got several film projects, I've got a festival, I've got friends who could do with a friendly word or a call or attention. I've got business relationships that could do with an update. I could be querying, I could be WRITING!

But I can't.

In one of my books, I write about writer's block, and what it can do to us - how frustrating it is, how mindnumbing it is, how much it hurts. And what can help us get through it. Normally what I turn to when I feel like this is discipline. I force myself to write (ahem... look... I is writing something right now!), even if the thing I'm writing is not the thing I should be writing.

I don't write as a hobby anymore. I used to. This used to be my hobby. This used to be the thing that I do when I have nothing else to do. I don't view it like that anymore. Every single word I put down has a purpose now - so sometimes when I feel like this, I have to go back to pointless writing (not that any art is ever pointless). But the kind of writing I would have done as a child. A silly little fairytale. A fanfic. A scene that is so spicy and smutty that it would make a pornstar blush.

So when I cannot bring myself to do the work, maybe what I need to do is find the play. Not think of this as my job. I have a day off today, clearly, since I can't do my job. So why shouldn't I indulge in some play.

So I'ma post on tumblr (to which I am new, by the way, and I know I'm late but oh well here I am), I'ma write a spicy fanfic, I'ma read some fairytale about goblins and princesses.

Because today I am not a writer. Today I am just me.

[ronikamerl]

[ronikamerl]

Practise What You Preach

I gave a lesson yesterday. It’s one I’ve given multiple times, I have the info, the stats, the data down to a t, I don’t need to prepare for it anymore. 

It is a very general overview of what the first steps are when you’ve written a screenplay and would like to get started in the industry. It’s very straightforward. It’s about an hour and a half, with time at the end for questions or discussion. 

I use examples from my own career, and examples from different aspects of the industry. And in all honesty: I make it seem quite easy. It is easy. All it takes is hard work, determination, a willingness and ability to put yourself out there, and an urge to get to the next step in your career. 

I spoke about how the writing is first, it must always come first. First we write, and we write so, so, so very much. We must be confident in our craft, we must have a back catalogue of valuable materials, we must know what we’re doing - only then will we be hired reliably and often enough. 

But then I walked home, enjoying an early summer’s evening in Dublin. I contemplated. I wondered. 

I like my career. I like the way it’s going. It has ups and downs, and sometimes it throws me violently to the ground, grinds me to a pulp and spits me out - but then it lifts up again. I am not starving, but I’m no millionaire either. I get hired regularly, though the value of the gigs is not always enough to make a living. It’s an artist’s life, very much so. 

Why? 

I have been in the industry for about 4 years now, and quit my corporate job almost 3 years ago. It’s been a rollercoaster since, with projects being cancelled, other projects never quite making it over the finish line, collaborations disintegrating… in short: the film business. 

But I’m not quite there yet, I feel. I’m not quite in the place I’d like to be, in the place where I saw myself being at 32 years old, the place I imagined I would be. 

A lot of that has to do with my personal life, of course. After the pandemic, my life shifted dramatically and a devastating loss in my private life threw me off my game for a while - but still. I thought I’d be further along. I thought I would have made it by now. More so than I already have. 

I have to often remind myself of my successes: I’ve worked with an Oscar winner, I’ve dined with Hollywood Executives, I’ve been hired internationally on a continuous basis, I’ve had books published and I run a film festival. It’s not that I’m not successful. I am. By any and all standards. 

So what is holding me back? 

As I walked through Camden Street yesterday, the sun glinting in my eye, the people of Dublin out in full force, drinking and laughing and being Dubliners, I realised that I was comfortable where I was. I love my job. I love doing what I do. And recently, I had lost some of the urgency because I was so happy with where I was. I was beginning to become complacent. 

Not an hour earlier, I had preached loudly and passionately to the students in front of me that we must always keep pushing, that we must never stop writing and never stop promoting, and never stop collaborating - we must work at it every. single. day. 

But was I doing that? No. 

Was I writing as much now as I had done when I started out? No. 

Was I promoting myself as much as I had done in the beginning of my career? No. 

I was relying on the seeds I had already planted, and I was woefully neglectful of planting and seeding the next batch. The harvest was drying up, because I was only watering the plants that were already bearing fruit - not ploughing new fields, cultivating new land. 

It’s not that I am being lazy. My days are quite full. But there is more I could be doing. I should still be doing all the things I told my students to do. 

So here is an attempt at that. An attempt to right this wrong, and re-up my game. I must practise what I preach and take my own advice. And pretend that I have not made it yet, at all. 

[ronikamerl]

Mal Du Pays

Nestled deep into the countryside in central France, hidden amongst green treetops, steep hills, surrounded by little streams and rivers, there stands the ruin of an old castle. Seven turrets race towards the sky, intricately built towers, still standing incredibly tall, perched on a cliff. Once upon a time, a flag would have flown from those towers: a foot-and-beakless blackbird on yellow. An emblem, a symbol, of a family. The name of that family? Merle. 

I have a long history, and quite the life. I’ve written about it often, and spoken about it even more. And while I have no connection to the rest of the Merl family anymore (save my brother, whom I speak to very sporadically), there has always been something in the name. 

So when I recently re-evaluated my life and the choices that led me to where I was (in a manor house just outside Dublin, strolling through a beautifully kept garden, chatting to the gardener), there was a call. Not of the “real” kind, more a call of the soul, really. And the call was to come home. 

I’ve been travelling. I’ve moved 11 times since 2022, and continue to not stay in a place for more than a few weeks. I love this lifestyle. It keeps me on my toes, it keeps me creative, and I do not fall into a routine. But I’ve always known that this is not a lifestyle I can - or want to! - continue for ever. 

However, Dublin is Dublin, and the housing crisis here is so severe that there is no real possibility for me to settle down without significantly sacrificing my quality of life, the choices I make, or my freedom. I do not subscribe to the hustle culture, and affording a place in one of the most expensive cities in the world is not really something I want to prioritise. 

So that was the thought that was ruminating in me as I wandered through this lavish garden, and returned to the old east wing of the house to bring some potatoes to the kitchen for the dinner. 

And the thought of going home came up again. I didn’t know where that “home” was. I’ve lived in a lot of places, and nothing has ever felt like home, really. So where was I going to go? 

Fernweh and Wanderlust have always been much, much more prominent than any Mal Du Pays. Chiefly because I don’t really have a home country. I’m not Indian, but I was born there. I am Austrian, but I don’t live there. I live in Ireland, but I’m not Irish. 

Where does one go when one wants to go home, and there is no such thing as that? If you emigrate, you then have 2 home countries. I could feasibly say that I have several home countries. I don’t really know if I can or want to live in any of them. 

But there is a hidden valley in central France. Seven Towers overlook a small village, and in the tourist information centre there are brochures that show an old crest… a blackbird on yellow. And the name? Mine. 

I shall go there. Because maybe, after all these years… I have finally found my way home.