We hip, therefore we are

"I hip, therefore I am" - Nyree Yergainharsian
"I am, therefore I hip" - Brian Bennett

Last Tuesday, after spending an afternoon trawling through our collective bookshelf and reading everything we had on Fran Bell, the ultimate hipster poet, Nyree and I decided, with coffee still steaming from the cups on the table and our stomachs grumbling in anticipation of the Linseed Soup with Cauliflower and Turnip homemade bread which we were about to make, that we would undertake the dubious task of becoming poets. Professional poets. Actually scrap the professional, we don’t care enough. Just poets. Beatnik, fashionista, vegan loving poets. Who eat meat. On occasion. (Even that contradiction makes for interesting verses no?) and who troll the dank and dusty bars looking for a stage in which our voices could be heard.

“Let me speak!” and “Hear me vegans of Dublin!” were some of the sentences we shouted from our apartment roof later that evening. Nyree wearing a 60’s linen dress littered with butterfly's and a headscarf which had written all over it, in a peculiar font, Butterfly Catcher. 

I had dispensed with clothes all together and simply wore a pair of briefs in which along the waistline was written a single word over and over. Boxers. 

In the morning we awoke at the godforsaken hour of eleven and had a light breakfast of cigarettes and coffee, (Espresso for her, Ristretto for me) and thought about what we would write for a while. After some serious musings we had brunch which consisted of brown bread and soup (Wild Languedoc tomato for her and mixed celery without celery for me) followed by saying that famous line from Mid-Term Break by Seamus Heaney over and over while listening to Animal Collective. A four foot box, a foot for every year. By the time we got ready to leave the apartment we were fairly tired. First of all we had to decide what to wear, then change our outfits because the new version of us, the ones who like to write poetry might not wear what we had chosen. Then we thought it is even more ironic that we dress like we always do and not like poets, so in the end we settled on our original outfits. Plus we planned with Google maps which was the best possible route for inspiration. We tried to select a course which would not only pass statues and local landmarks but also semi rough areas with the occasional Lidl or Aldi. This was surprisingly easy in Dublin. Ready to go, at the front door, we noticed the clouds becoming dull and grey and that even though it was July, rain was definitely on the cards in the next while. The collective decision was then that the best way to gain inspiration was to have a mid day snooze and let our subconscious do the work for us. Easy. So we slept.

And slept.

I awoke briefly to take a pee and get a glass of water from the kitchen. Nyree came into the kitchen to get a drink also. We both agreed that inspiration had not come and we needed more rest. So we slept.

And slept. 

It was after six in the evening when we awoke. We met in the kitchen and both agreed this time that inspiration had surely come. Our subconscious's had done their job. Thanks guys. We ate some fruit and had a cappuccino each to fill us up and hit the town, ready for whatever the open mic nights and this crazy new world of poetry had to offer us. We walked through the streets. Searching. Like poets always do. Poets love an oul search, be it physically searching for stuff or existentially searching I bet you that if you call up Seamus Heaney on the mobile you'll get his answering machine message which will say that Seamus can't come to the phone right now as he is currently off searching. Try it. That's a fact of life right there.

In the middle of a conversation about who’s subconcoius was more conscious of it’s carbon footprint we came across a small little bar which according to the obvious childlike writing in chalk on the blackboard out front had an open mic night that evening. We looked at each other and went in. 

Inside, it was dark and strangely smoky even with the smoking ban in effect. The clientele were head to tow in corduroy and clearly didn’t know a tapered jean if it hit them in the face. We went to the bar and ordered two bottles of Westvleteren 12 which needless to say the barman never heard of. In the end we settled for whiskey and ginger ale and watched some shabby long haired singer songwriter finish his set. (His last song was entitled Enjoy your muffins and your beers. Nuff said.).

He finished. Applause. Then the moment we had been preparing for happened. The applause finished and suddenly a lull descended across the establishment. Nyree and I looked around at everyone who in turn were looking around at everyone else. Everyone was waiting to see who would grace the stage with their presence. Nyree and I downed the remainder of our drinks, high-fived and walked up to the stage like it ain't no thing. It wasn't actually. If the poetry failed miserably we could always stop half way through and go through the latest trends via a presentation of some sort or maybe even start a Fund It campaign to give these people a chance to buy some new clothes and gain even the faintest hint of fashion. 

Up onstage, the lights hit us in the face and a deafly silence ensued. We agreed at the bar that Nyree would say her poem that she'd been working on. I would simply stand beside her, looking poet chic  and give support. Nyree approached the mic.

My coffee is black.

Like my hair.

My food is green.

Like the Earth.

So many people,

so many clothes, 

so many getting it wrong,

so many woes. 

I, who have hipped,

while waking barefoot in the streets,

have not got a care in my head. 

I, who cannot care,

while looking at your ugly clothes,

have died a fashion death, i'm in hell, I am dead.

Oh do not ask me,

what should I wear?

Oh do not ask me,

how should I do my hair?

Oh do not ask me,

why is coffee black?

Oh please just tell me

you're sorry for looking so tack.

Each and everyone of you

 seriously know a thing or two

about fashion and it's victims,

now what are you going to do?

Even though I applauded Nyree's honest and provoking piece, I think in between ducking the pint glass, the verbal abuse and the fact the bouncer would only let us leave through the back door, the general public were just not ready for us waxing lyrical about them. As some famous actor in some shit film once said, you can't handle the truth! And the sad truth is my fellow hipsters, a lot of them can't. Sadface.

To cheer us up though, check out Photographer to the stars, Ros Kavanagh being an absolute ledge-bag and sending in these photos. Or as we say in the biz, a 'series' of photos. Whatev's, no big deal.

"This series of pics is about a photographer trying to disrupt his droning aesthetic of objectivity by playing a part in his own image. A carefully composed photo of the grey lane way and flats is broken by some dubious attempts at having fun … but not succeeding altogether, possibly due to the regular visits to the local bakery. "

If Ros was in the audience that night he would've defended us. We know this. Hipsters stick together. Ros Kavanagh = LedgeBag, Hipster, Defender of the truth and all around great guy!

Staykool.

Nyree & Brian

Hipsters we met and liked

"Whatev's, we're over it".