An excerpt from Lelia Doolan's epic poem: 'Blur'

'Tis all a Blur.

GFC and the Fleadh shot out of the womb around the same time and have been joined at the hip ever since. Virtually.

Images: clattering up the stairs at New Docks inventing reasons to apply for money from the Organs of the State. For film, for what? Fillum, yes. Ah god, ye're mad.

Shocked faces at extensive use of colourful language on the phone (when we got one, thanks to Celine who Knew Someone) especially from a poor gently-bred person from Renmore who came to do a Work Placement -- thought she was in with the loonies of Mahon.

Dust that grew during the night and clogged the lungs. Windows that let in slicing gales of wind.

Bockety tables and chairs, mostly robbed. Never enough to go around. Someone always losing the key.

Mugs with the remains of fag ends, caffeine, tannin stains. One cold water tap. Call this a lavatory? Battalions of cartons of turning milk on the windowsill.

Unlimited blather; barrelsfull of ideas; meetings all over the place, democracy slowing everything down. How will we? Who will? Where will we?

Never, never, never -- Will we?

The Arts Centre gave the Fleadh a broom cupboard on the return in Dominick Street -- same system of mugs and loos and turning milk. One telephone for what seemed to be twenty five people.

One table. Hundreds of notions. No money.

Managers, directors, box office wallahs, drivers, printers, interior decorators, graphic artists, writers of blurbs -- created overnight. Never stopped to think: could we?

Openers of bank accounts; amassers of camera equipment, editing machines, totters-up of the cash, balancers of books -- emerged simultaneously. Even the start of a wage for one or two. People who didn't know they could, just did.

The Arts Council was small, those days. Mostly let people get on with it.

The Corrib Tiger-Baby: the move to HIgh Street; an actual room! Wait: rooms with carpets on the floors! ah God -- and a landlord downstairs, Colm, with a permanently startled look.

Enough space for small producers, for a MEDIA antenna (wha'?)

Darrina shouting on the street; Celine pouring oil, finding solutions, not sending for the Guards, doing twenty jobs at once. People actually making films, editing them, showing them! Regular (reluctant/recalcitrant) group practices of Singin' In The Rain numbers rockin' the floors in preparation for the Fleadh's season of musicals

Well.

The Big Time! Move-Don't Move to Cluain Mhuire. Mega-debates and ructions. Bored Meetings. Trial marriage with GMIT; Big Meetin's with The Nobs on the Dublin Road..

Arrangements and Contracts and Budgets and still the no-seat-in-his/her-pants and Yes We Will spirit.

More equipment: cameras, Final Cut Pro, Training Programmes. Godamighty...

Big Notions. Managers big and small; Claire and Liz and Anna -- debts and rescue packages; Tracy in on a white charger, sorting the men from the biys. Big Office Space, small office space. Actual chairs and actual real desks and Miriam and Cathy with the Fleadh next door, creating yearly chaos. Sé and Pete moseying along, reminding people of where the lens cap goes.

What about the members?

They're here. They've done more than they ever thought they could.

Than they never realised they could.

But they did. They do.

That's what it's all about

Blessed art thou, Declan, after all the Dames!

GFC.

Or whatever it's called. All a bit of a blur.

LD