Archive for the 'Text' Category

# H a c k x i t

September 3, 2019

# H a c k x i t

< Islington|Hackney >


You   are   now   attempting   to   cross  the  border 

into  the  Independent  Republic   of   Hackney.    

Please    have    all    the  necessary  

papers   ready   for   inspection.   

Thank   you    and   we hope  

you   can    enjoy    your    stay.

You are welcome to

H a c k n e y

Rotterdam #art #gar #houseofodwyer #curatorial #colector

December 17, 2018

From eleven years ago.

By way of performing at the Rotterdam Art Fair




painting / works on paper



Canal – A novella in verse – by Gar O’Dwyer – Part 1

November 9, 2018

C a n a l

A novella in verse

by Gar O’Dwyer

Part 1


Chapter 1


In the toilet the struggle with

the limescale build-up

had taken on geological proportions

driving me right round, right round

right round the fucking u-bend.

Calcification creeping excrescence

voices from the radio pervade the kitchen.

News. The neverendum borders, Brexit, Trump

and other disasters.


The Professor, Professor Sniffy Booboo too you,

a pedigree Welshie, a terrier of distinction,

in between monitoring my food handling activities

would repeatedly drop, then retrieves in her teeth

a tennis ball, at the feet of her adopted homo-sapien

Me. Hi. I’m Tom by the way.

No Don’t.


The ominous sound of the ball’s percussive bounce,

demanding and threatening all at once.

Not now Sniffy – I tell her, as I make my coffee.

The Professor continues to stare at the dirty grey ball,

with an alarming focus.

I change radio stations, from news and reviews, re-tuning

to one playing music. You can choose.

The professor continues to stare at the dull grey sphere.


I seek out my phone, the dog lead…

and with play a no go, Prof. Sniffy Booboo, slopes off with a mild whimper,

as I collect pooh bags, coffee cup and …

Sniffy pitter-patters back with a soft toy, a plush little penguin.

‘That’s not yours Professor Sniffy Boo-boo.

I wrestle the toy pouch away from her beardy snout;

distract her with a crumb of bread,

and place snooty safely on top of the cupboard,

I like to call it an Armoire.

Sniffy gives a low level bark between a fleet of whimpers.

My phone rings.

It’s mum, I tell Sniffy.

I continue a search for shoes.

Hi… Yes…Ok mum… come by tomorrow.

I pick up my baseball cap,

Tomorrow night.

Professor Sniffy Booboo follows me…


to be continued…

For the reader? Spoken word? Performance art? Can a poem be all three? #DalsonBallet

August 11, 2018


house of o’dwyer for Dalston Ballet



Crouch down

bent double

over the counter


blunt force trauma

fill the empty interior

shut me up


shut me down

manage the beast

stop the hysteria


work for the tongue

roughly speaking

worship and adore


under the weather

come in my eye

post traumatic stress disorder


let me go

out patient

I can suck at it myself


taste the meat

feel the heat

down I come


enjoy the ache

Medicate me

choke on me



i don’t need anyone

the taste of it


he’s back, for more

I can’t take all of it

split in two


brain on the floor

rub my face in it

fight me for it


ride me home

teach me what

my mouth is for





live performance / spoken word / live art with Dalston Ballet & Gar de Da

August 10, 2018


What ever happened to baby Gar?


Queen Adelaide Tarot by Dalston Ballet

at Transhuman express

performing with dalston ballet:

LR, Gar de Da, Daria and Vit



W: Writing Quotes #evelynwaugh ‘There is a great deal to be said for the Arts. For one thing they offer the only career…

June 13, 2018


… in which commercial failure is not necessarily discreditable.’

Evelyn Waugh


Y. Writing Quotes A – Z: ‘I could say that all my books were conceived by the time I was twenty…

June 10, 2018


… although they were not to be written for another thirty or forty years. But perhaps this is true of most writers – the emotional storage is done very early on.’

Marguerite Yourcenar




William Zinsser


Writing Quotes A-Z

In London on 5th July? Join me and 11 other writers reading from their new novels. #anudesprogress #garodwyer

May 13, 2018


New faces. New literature. New novels.




More here >

and here >


#dalston #ballet #May #fair #tarot #Exile, #alienation, #weaving #wounds #into #work #brace

March 28, 2018

Exile, alienation, weaving wounds into work,

work for thee to do, social misfit, bitter sweet,

unlucky in love, in life, in art.

You, you’re not serious enough,

flesh and bone nothing to where.

nothing about my life

perfect proportions

Serious is not the same as solemn

brace, brace, brace29571435_10160402750770651_997827114103947037_n.jpg

photo Alice herrick

model Qila foufou

for Dalston Ballet & house of o’dwyer



editors, agents, publishers lend me your eyes! Short story [1240 words] for end of term: Pointing the finger by Gar O’Dwyer. plz advise!

March 25, 2018

This is a rough 2nd draft. Any feedback / advice / suggestions gratefully received.

Pointing the finger – (1242 words)

A metaphor. How to describe the arms  being raised of many individuals, rising to point at the figure up on, upon, the apex of the dark grey roof of the old Georgian house. Describing this was the task I had set myself. That was actually what I was writing when that question arose once more: What are you writing about? Really? This question? How do you answer? It always really did my head in. I had a figure on the roof, a character fleeing, or returning, or trespassing, or all three. What the hell is s/he doing up there? Of course I am not just writing about that. But what then am I really writing about? I’m writing about…

A community gives away its soul by the colour of the roofs of its buildings. As such I’m convinced that all nations flags should reflect this. They should be roof coloured. England shall lead the way with the creation of a mostly grey flag with patches of moss green at its dampest corner. Sweden will have a red flag. I’ll let you come up with ideas for other countries.

The hands rose and fell like the heads of birds at a watering hole. Toooo much? The awkwardness of ‘watering hole.’ It sounds too much like a rattling train carriage.

The hands rise and fall like the sleek black heads of crows a-flock a field, squawking and cawing between their gleaning piston like dips at the furrowed earth, select instinctively selecting the morsels to sustain them for the next few days of fight, romance, competition and puzzle solving. You know, life on earth.

A swarm, a gaggle, a… birds of a feather, flocking… One-second beaks down pecking at their prey, the next, extended neck, beak poking at the air, eyes darting, dangers assessed, harvesting in fear, constantly alert for ‘It’. The enemy. Why?

Why could I not reach an answer to that question: What are you writing about? What was I writing about? Why is the question so tough? Too tough. Then the epiphany. The answer. The discovery. I was writing about…

My novel was written and at re-editing stage. A middle, a beginning, and an end. Why could I not for the life of me fathom what the hell it was about? Why did I have no answer to that question? What the f*** are you writing about? Answer! What are your themes? Themes? What is it about in one line? 50 words? I don’t know! For weeks I asked myself this question, and could only answer: I don’t know!

Then as I said the epiphany had come. It came as I thought about a way of describing the figure on the roof; the grey roof with a corner of moss green. I knew what it was about. I pictured the crowd’s arms rising, pointing, , at the character on the roof and falling again. That was it. I knew. But there was more. Multiply epiphanies surged through my organism. Waves of euphoria tinged with a sense of enlightenment, tinged with a sense of, Is that all there is to art?

Something flushed through me, out from my chest, my head, all the way to my extremities. I was on fire. I was in the Zone. I was like a surfer on the crest of a swell. Metaphor. Waxing and waning. The rush. Let me stop there. I have wandered off track too far. What was it about? My writing? Did I want to actually know? Do you really actually want to know? I’ll end here then. Without a conclusion, just a question. That is the fashion ‘these days,’ the open ended ending, ending on a question. What do you think happened? Pah! So weak. It happens a lot in films too. e.g. [list of films.] A late modern fashion that seeks to signify a more refined intellect and sensibility. There is good and bad pretension. I’ll let you decide which category this falls into! Maybe in the case of film, no one ever gets anymore to the end of a script, leaving what might once have been radical gesture, pose, to be a stylistic unquestioned trope signifying status (superiority) and tribal allegiance of a self selecting elite. As I digress, to discuss this late modern fashion for inconclusive endings, a smart arse, smug fear of coming down on one side or another, I ‘suddenly’ realise (Oh why are there not more words for suddenly, in English!?) I suddenly realise that I have no story in this story! Whaaaaat! Wrong. There is a story. It is a story about someone, me, probably, writing a story and as they do so, they ask themselves: ‘What am I really writing about? And realising that they just don’t know what they are really writing about. In one way this would actually amount to them (me) not knowing who they really are. One theme of the novel. Who am I? What can we discover about ourselves? Time for a mysterious death maybe?

I’m twisting your melon man! Or as I like to say, just messing with your mangoes; or I’m just twisting your turnips, dude. 

Here the manuscript ended…


     Got you again! lol. Can I say lol? It was more a sharp loud shriek to be honest. So here goes. The epiphany. Though it no longer seems so woah! now, today, rereading. But I’ve got thus far. I must go on. Done the build up (really?) Yes. A character writes a story and realises he doesn’t know what he is writing about. S/he begins a quest to find the truth… on the quest s/he has an epiphany.

[Insert epiphany here.]

So the epiphany is here. Near the end. But not the end in terms of structure. No.

[p.t.o for the epiphany]

Here it is. I was writing about predators. Do you love it? I was writing about predators. Who wasn’t? * Was this the epiphany worth waiting for? We don’t really want to know who we are. No. We want to know who wants something from us? And why? Who is who? Not who am I? But, Who are you? And why are you fucking with me? Doorbell. Bollocks…

I’m back in the room. From narcissists, to thrill killers, from pick pockets to rapists, from meek and mild Matilda, to vile voracious Ted Bundy: we are all on the predator spectrum. We all have predator traits to some degree. And then it happened: The ultimate epiphany; the multiply epiphany, the transcendental epiphany of ecstasy, the epiphany that keeps on giving. [This is why I write. For the epiphany.] Isn’t that what all storytelling is / was / has been about? Beware! Predators at work. All Art in fact is about this central concern, conceit. It is the key to our creativity. I am bathed in euphoric contentment; a mini high, a tentative bliss, at the very idea. I understand. All art is about predation.

I returned to listening to the lecture playing in the background as I came out the other side of the epiphany. On the roots of Romanticism. A lecture given by Isaiah Berlin to a lecture hall full of attentive listeners in Cambridge, some decades past.

Questions. Where was he on the predator spectrum? Where was I?

I needed a title for this small essay slash story. I closed my eyes to focus on what the philosopher was telling us… But before long I was gone…




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