Independence Day?

blue and yellow round star print textile
Photo by freestocks.org on Pexels.com

Today was supposed to be the day the UK left the EU. Needless to say, that’s all still up in a heap, as my grandfather would say. When we heard the referendum result in June 2016, it was a massive, massive shock. I left work quite late, and feeling pretty sure that while the vote result would be narrow the UK would vote to stay.

Watching what’s supposed to be the home of parliamentary democracy slide into what can only be describe as a massive clusterfuck doesn’t make me happy in any way. I’m not particularly nationalist and I don’t have any innate desire for a united Ireland any time soon. I know the EU isn’t a perfect institution, but show me one that is.

I’m able to say with a fair degree of confidence that I, like most other people observing this chaos, have no idea what’s going to happen next.

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Independence Day?

Tiny Sparks of Joy

img_20190319_121430-1This view. A place in Dublin I rarely walk around. I forgot how nice a riverside stroll can be.

The aforementioned stroll led to a long overdue lunch with friends and plans for more catchups.

Looking forward to another referendum. We do love a good referendum. Thanks, Irish Constitution.

Finally being in the headspace to be able to listen to analysis of the referendum on the eighth amendment. Still brings all the emotions to the surface. Still can’t quite believe its normal to see advertisements for abortion services at bus stops and in the local health clinic.

Feeling stronger after every gym session.

Tiny Sparks of Joy

1972/1998

In 1998 I turned 17.

Six of the 14 people murdered on Bloody Sunday were 17.

Listening to the Morning Ireland coverage of Bloody Sunday was hard.

In 1998 the Good Friday Agreement was one of the highlights of the year, not just for me.

I wasn’t old enough to vote but I was old enough to get a copy of the referendum materials from the local library and read them and feel the excitement when the referendum passed.

Hearing today that one soldier will face charges because of his actions on Bloody Sunday I couldn’t help but think of 1998 and how things have been since then.

Peace is so very fragile. And is it even peace at all.

We studied the poems of Thomas Kinsella in school in 1998.

We never studied this one.

BUTCHER’S DOZEN:
A LESSON FOR THE OCTAVE OF WIDGERY

by Thomas Kinsella

I went with Anger at my heel
Through Bogside of the bitter zeal
– Jesus pity! – on a day
Of cold and drizzle and decay.
A month had passed. Yet there remained
A murder smell that stung and stained.
On flats and alleys-over all-
It hung; on battered roof and wall,
On wreck and rubbish scattered thick,
On sullen steps and pitted brick.
And when I came where thirteen died
It shrivelled up my heart. I sighed
And looked about that brutal place
Of rage and terror and disgrace.
Then my moistened lips grew dry.
I had heard an answering sigh!
There in a ghostly pool of blood
A crumpled phantom hugged the mud:
“Once there lived a hooligan.
A pig came up, and away he ran.
Here lies one in blood and bones,
Who lost his life for throwing stones.”

More voices rose. I turned and saw
Three corpses forming, red and raw,
From dirt and stone. Each upturned face
Stared unseeing from its place:
“Behind this barrier, blighters three,
We scrambled back and made to flee.
The guns cried Stop, and here lie we.”
Then from left and right they came,
More mangled corpses, bleeding, lame,
Holding their wounds. They chose their ground,
Ghost by ghost, without a sound,
And one stepped forward, soiled and white:
“A bomber I. I travelled light
– Four pounds of nails and gelignite
About my person, hid so well
They seemed to vanish where I fell.
When the bullet stopped my breath
A doctor sought the cause of death.
He upped my shirt, undid my fly,
Twice he moved my limbs awry,
And noticed nothing. By and by
A soldier, with his sharper eye,
Beheld the four elusive rockets
Stuffed in my coat and trouser pockets.
Yes, they must be strict with us,
Even in death so treacherous!”
He faded, and another said:
“We three met close when we were dead.
Into an armoured car they piled us
Where our mingled blood defiled us,
Certain, if not dead before,
To suffocate upon the floor.

Careful bullets in the back
Stopped our terrorist attack,
And so three dangerous lives are done
– Judged, condemned and shamed in one.”
That spectre faded in his turn.
A harsher stirred, and spoke in scorn:
“The shame is theirs, in word and deed,
Who prate of justice, practise greed,
And act in ignorant fury – then,
Officers and gentlemen,
Send to their Courts for the Most High
To tell us did we really die!
Does it need recourse to law
To tell ten thousand what they saw?
Law that lets them, caught red-handed,
Halt the game and leave it stranded,
Summon up a sworn inquiry
And dump their conscience in the diary.
During which hiatus, should
Their legal basis vanish, good,
The thing is rapidly arranged:
Where’s the law that can’t be changed?
The news is out. The troops were kind.
Impartial justice has to find
We’d be alive and well today
If we had let them have their way.
Yet England, even as you lie,
You give the facts that you deny.
Spread the lie with all your power
– All that’s left; it’s turning sour.
Friend and stranger, bride and brother,
Son and sister, father, mother,

All not blinded by your smoke,
Photographers who caught your stroke,
The priests that blessed our bodies, spoke
And wagged our blood in the world’s face.
The truth will out, to your disgrace.”
He flushed and faded. Pale and grim,
A joking spectre followed him:
“Take a bunch of stunted shoots,
A tangle of transplanted roots,
Ropes and rifles, feathered nests,
Some dried colonial interests,
A hard unnatural union grown
In a bed of blood and bone,
Tongue of serpent, gut of hog
Spiced with spleen of underdog.
Stir in, with oaths of loyalty,
Sectarian supremacy,
And heat, to make a proper botch,
In a bouillon of bitter Scotch.
Last, the choice ingredient: you.
Now, to crown your Irish stew,
Boil it over, make a mess.
A most imperial success!”
He capered weakly, racked with pain,
His dead hair plastered in the rain;
The group was silent once again.
It seemed the moment to explain
That sympathetic politicians
Say our violent traditions,
Backward looks and bitterness
Keep us in this dire distress.
We must forget, and look ahead,

Nurse the living, not the dead.
My words died out. A phantom said:
“Here lies one who breathed his last
Firmly reminded of the past.
A trooper did it, on one knee,
In tones of brute authority.”
That harsher spirit, who before
Had flushed with anger, spoke once more:
“Simple lessons cut most deep.
This lesson in our hearts we keep:
Persuasion, protest, arguments,
The milder forms of violence,
Earn nothing but polite neglect.
England, the way to your respect
Is via murderous force, it seems;
You push us to your own extremes.
You condescend to hear us speak
Only when we slap your cheek.
And yet we lack the last technique:
We rap for order with a gun,
The issues simplify to one
– Then your Democracy insists
You mustn’t talk with terrorists!
White and yellow, black and blue,
Have learnt their history from you:
Divide and ruin, muddle through,
Not principled, but politic.
– In strength, perfidious; weak, a trick
To make good men a trifle sick.
We speak in wounds. Behold this mess.
My curse upon your politesse.”

Another ghost stood forth, and wet
Dead lips that had not spoken yet:
“My curse on the cunning and the bland,
On gentlemen who loot a land
They do not care to understand;
Who keep the natives on their paws
With ready lash and rotten laws;
Then if the beasts erupt in rage
Give them a slightly larger cage
And, in scorn and fear combined,
Turn them against their own kind.
The game runs out of room at last,
A people rises from its past,
The going gets unduly tough
And you have (surely … ?) had enough.
The time has come to yield your place
With condescending show of grace
– An Empire-builder handing on.
We reap the ruin when you’ve gone,
All your errors heaped behind you:
Promises that do not bind you,
Hopes in conflict, cramped commissions,
Faiths exploited, and traditions.”
Bloody sputum filled his throat.
He stopped and coughed to clear it out,
And finished, with his eyes a-glow:
“You came, you saw, you conquered … So.
You gorged – and it was time to go.
Good riddance. We’d forget – released –
But for the rubbish of your feast,
The slops and scraps that fell to earth
And sprang to arms in dragon birth.

Sashed and bowler-hatted, glum
Apprentices of fife and drum,
High and dry, abandoned guards
Of dismal streets and empty yards,
Drilled at the codeword ‘True Religion’
To strut and mutter like a pigeon
‘Not An Inch – Up The Queen’;
Who use their walls like a latrine
For scribbled magic-at their call,
Straight from the nearest music-hall,
Pope and Devil intertwine,
Two cardboard kings appear, and join
In one more battle by the Boyne!
Who could love them? God above…”
“Yet pity is akin to love,”
The thirteenth corpse beside him said,
Smiling in its bloody head,
“And though there’s reason for alarm
In dourness and a lack of charm
Their cursed plight calls out for patience.
They, even they, with other nations
Have a place, if we can find it.
Love our changeling! Guard and mind it.
Doomed from birth, a cursed heir,
Theirs is the hardest lot to bear,
Yet not impossible, I swear,
If England would but clear the air
And brood at home on her disgrace
– Everything to its own place.
Face their walls of dole and fear
And be of reasonable cheer.

Good men every day inherit
Father’s foulness with the spirit,
Purge the filth and do not stir it.
Let them out! At least let in
A breath or two of oxygen,
So they may settle down for good
And mix themselves in the common blood.
We are what we are, and that
Is mongrel pure. What nation’s not
Where any stranger hung his hat
And seized a lover where she sat?”
He ceased and faded. Zephyr blew
And all the others faded too.
I stood like a ghost. My fingers strayed
Along the fatal barricade.
The gentle rainfall drifting down
Over Colmcille’s town
Could not refresh, only distil
In silent grief from hill to hill.

Maybe we should have.

1972/1998

Tiny Sparks of Joy

img_20190305_121803

Making scones. Every time I make them I wonder why I don’t make them more. I used up a random packet of glacé cherries because why not.

Finishing a project that Wrecked My Head and being pretty pleased with the results which arrived this morning.

A clear bed in the spare room. It doesn’t happen often and it doesn’t last long but it’s nice when it does.

Taking myself firmly in hand as per this post and booking myself a dentist appointment for tomorrow. I’m dreading it but it has to be done and the sooner I go the sooner it’ll be over. Trying to tell myself this sparks joy to take the fear away.

The new series of Derry Girls. The music brings me right back to my teen years, and I’m able to laugh at myself. A lot.

Tiny Sparks of Joy

Current Obsession: Photobooks

imag0914This is one of the photos that made the cut for a hastily thrown together 2018 photobook. I decided convenience was worth the price of getting it via Google photos. I picked photos from the selection I took with my phone, went for an automatically generated layout and hit order. It arrived within a week and I was delighted with it. The quality was superior to some others we’ve ordered and I’m amazed that photos from my phone came out so well.

With this in mind, and given my current focus on decluttering and organising and getting on top of things, I decided to tackle another project. My children’s art from years of Montessori has been in our attic for many months. In a middle of the night breastfeeding session I started looking into what people do with stuff like this and one recommendation was a photobook.

My lazy streak reared its head and I contacted a company which you can box up and send the stuff too.  It will then photograph it professionally and make a photobook. Sounded very convenient, but the price was far more than I was willing to pay. Sometimes my frugal streak overcomes my love of convenience.

I told myself I could EASILY do this myself, sure look at the fantastic pictures my trusty phone took and the fabulous photobook I made with no effort at all. So I decided it would take no longer than an hour to take the photos and another hour to make the albums up and no time at all to produce and order two photos and I could smugly pat myself on the back and tell myself the savings were well worth it because I would have the satisfaction of doing something myself.

I continue to be surprised by how naive I can be about many things. It took a week of work to take the bloody photos. I had to snatch time when I could, the sunlight was a bit of a battle and extracting staples from paper made my fingers sore. I had to do a lot more editing of the pictures than I expected and I had fiddle around with the layouts a lot more.

The books are printed and on the way. I hope they’re worth it, but in the end I am grateful that I had to learn a couple of new skills and going the DIY route was satisfying in many ways. The process also made me sort out our photos of other life events and being a bit more organised in this regard does spark joy.

Current Obsession: Photobooks