Unfiltered?
I love screenwriting’s disguise. A Billy Joel-esque, “she only reveals what she wants you to see”. When you write a short film, TV series or movie you can include a truth or rumination without exposing yourself completely. My characters aren’t me, but parts of me are in them.
I woke up this morning with gin still in my veins and considered writing a regular blog. Some people have asked about it — a tell-all by the girl who upped and left for blustery island life. I’d like to write unfiltered, all filthy and imperfect perfection. But then I’d be exposing myself far and wide to the vast internet. The plan instead is to expose myself far and wide in scripts, with fiction and truth intertwined.
What I will say is this.
I have time to light a fireplace. Not very well. But I have the time to light it. This week I went to rid of leftover ash and couldn’t understand why the plastic bags I put the ash into all had holes in them. It took some time, a damaged carpet, and a lot of ash on the ground, to realise that the hot ash was burning through. But I had the time to figure it out.
I have time to tweeze my eyebrows when I need to. Not that I can find my pair of tweezers right now — and they don’t sell them in the one shop on this island, so we’re encountering a high risk maintenance period — but I have the time when I do find them.
I have time to sleep more. I’m sleeping better. Teeth grinding became a grievance the last few years (shoutout to the dentistry student who pointed out the damage to me) and I had my repeated good intentions of wearing the necessary mouth guard. I’ve now become one of those functioning individuals who go to bed regularly before midnight. Before eleven even, and sometimes ten! Open the doors, private club of shit-together sleepers, I’m coming in! With my less damaged teeth!
I have the time to cook. I am breaking up with Deliveroo, JustEat and easy meals that rumble up IBS symptoms. However, Camile Thai is the lover that I will hook up with when I have the odd excursion to Dublin. I’m happy with our new found fleeting but passion-filled liaison.
I have time for Céilí lessons on a Thursday evening, Gaeilge lessons on a Wednesday evening, and hopefully soon informal driving lessons if I can convince one of the islanders to let me spin about the fields.
I have time to curl up with a hot water battle when I feel sad. I have time to shake my hips and patter my feet across floorboards when I feel happy. I have time to put coconut oil on my hair and nurture myself more. I answer phone calls now. After years of “can’t talk, too busy”, I’ve left behind my “call you tomorrow”s and misdirected grumpiness.
They say it will be a tough few months. Darkness comes so fast in the evenings and the storms rage and rumble windows. But I have time to light a candle and read. To write.
It’s grounding to be on a rock out on its own that is battered by the sea and wind. It’s peculiar, unfiltered and worn. But it remains and faces every new day. It lives and breathes. A rusted heaven where Time is not in shortage.
Tory Island’s time is not in shortage.
My time is not in shortage.
