Ireland is the bloated sow that kills its young. The best little neoliberal country in Europe. From the blood of patriots, alas, a city of tents has bloomed around us.
Strange flowers bloom in our city, folding into doorways at night, spreading through the city and out to the suburbs.
Airy, I suppose, and if you want to look at the stars, you can sleep al fresco in a fashionable street corner on Grafton Street; snug under a sheet of newspaper
Such a fabulous city. The edge to it now. Feral gangs roaming the streets, the glitter of knives after dark, the wretched stench, the rivers of urine. And such sights to behold. A man defecating on the pavement, a girl in her underwear, crazed on drugs, running around O’Connel Street.
Enjoy your trip home from the city, if you have a home. You might not have it for long. A tent awaits you, like some fabulous moth flapping its wings in a cold wind, just for you.
Good thing we got rid of the scourge of England. Our own in charge now: posh, privately educated politicians, owners of multiple properties, unctuously wringing their hands about the crises of homelessness; so hard to maintain all those properties, so very hard.
A nasty little neoliberal country run as a business model. A human being is reduced to an economic unit to be preyed on, exploited, profited from.
Capitalist pathologies have morphed into neoliberalism. With checks, balances, and democratic norms, it’s cyclical nature could have been sustained, but at its best it exploits and appeals to the very worst in our human nature, creating a society of individuals motivated by little other than self-interest and self-advancement, jostling for status, position, power or wealth, enslaving humans by the ego, itself an absurd societal construct .
Everything has shifted to the right, including basic moral parameters. Democracies are failing, the right and the left are configuring.
Here sadism and cruelty have crept out from under the nun’s mantle and into public discourse. Homeless children, like cockroaches, eat their dinner off the pavement.
But the economy is thriving, and there’s full employment…
The slogan “Keep the recovery going” … was as out of touch with reality as any despot surrounded by yes men. It’s a good thing a disenchanted constituency here will be soaked up by Sinn Fein.
But profits blossom, as does the sale of luxury goods. Now we have the rich, the poor, and the working poor, who are little better than slaves.
Vulgar extensions protrude out of gentrified neighbourhoods, gangs in the shadows waiting to smash through them.
History teaches us again and again that the poor man will come to the rich man’s gate, and the barbarians are on the move. Civic virtues mean nothing, the good life or the practice of virtue is sneered at.
The idea of civic-minded citizens leading a virtuous life is not a religious concept, but about creating a society based on shared collective values. There are ways to organise a society for the greatest common good that don’t require a widespread understanding of rocket science, or a Communist regime. It simply involves valuing wider social responsibilities, and relationships over the narrow morality of self-interest and self-advancement.
Empires come and go, and simple spiritual lessons go unheeded. Monotheistic religions are a disaster, and the religious disposition may well be a pathology, but there are great riches in all spiritual traditions, blithely ignored.
Who, once he had truly seen a flower, not just looked at it, would want temporal power or to run an empire, or would trample on someone else? A fool perhaps. Only a fool who cannot see it.
Survival was never about the survival of the fittest. Darwin was referring to the survival of the fittest to adapt. Atomised humans have no sense of being part of a collective species, no shared sense of a future, or of the future of the planet that sustains them.
And when the nuclear cloud has settled, the earthworm will perhaps continue churning joyfully through the charred ruins of the Earth. Perhaps even a flower might poke it’s head above the rubble when the human grub has gone.
On February 15th, 2021, John Buckley McQuaid, released an album of original songs about Ireland, This Is Where I Keep My Dreams, to a thundering silence from the media.
Long have I missed albums from Irish artists that address our present situation of apathy and indifference. Could it be that the media is ignoring such releases or could it be that such releases have so little commercial appeal, that artists refrain from recording and releasing them?
The situation for musicians is desperate, between Spotify and COVID-19, many musicians have thrown in the towel and have had to find other means of supporting themselves.
This brings me to ‘This Is Is Where I Keep My Dreams’, which delves into Irish history and has many comments, both critical and compassionate to make on the present situation. Mr. McQuaid (no relation to the late Archbishop!) is saying something that needs to be heard – now, more than ever! He has also created videos which add wonderful visuals to accompany many of the songs (links provided).
Here’s to the island of saints and of scholars ere’s to the biblical beasts of the field Here’s to the kingdom of clerical collars Here’s to the wounds that may never be healed. John Buckley McQuaid, ‘Land Of The Magdalenes’
‘Land Of The Magdalenes’ is a tale of the Diaspora, echoing James Joyce, a man who would not bend the knee to either Church or State, who referred to Irish art as ‘the cracked looking glass of a servant’ – an image of colonial subjugation.
Joyce himself went into exile in Europe, not being a man to play popinjay to an English court. He was guilty of the cardinal sin of pride, the sin of the devil – the defiant Joycean stance is still a reproach to any servile attitude towards Church, State, or a twisted, demonic God, who may, even now, be making Joyce pay throughout all eternity for his defiance.
Today the image in the servant’s looking glass is that of a post-colonial pig in lipstick smirking at its own reflection, aping its betters, mired in its own moral excrement, the sow rolling merrily on its young.
Rosary Beads and Respectability
Instead of rosary beads and respectability, we have the brash, vulgar, ignorant Castle Catholics, educating their children in private schools, a new pernicious breed of self-interested professionals and the very wealthy, whose aspirations are status, the acquisition of wealth, and self-advancement.
Give us this day lord, our villas in Spain, Lord Give us our castles with breakfast in bed
Give us a case of expensive champagne Lord,
Give us a place Lord, to lay down our heads. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Dear Mister Taoiseach’
All a far cry from the childhood of the late Frank McCourt, who wrote of having to conceal a pig’s head under newspaper walking home for fear he’d be mocked at Christmas, as they couldn’t afford a turkey.
When the brash Celtic Tiger gave way to the Crash; in a pub one afternoon, I noticed a couple walk in with Brown Thomas bags and noted their instinct to conceal them. People did not approve.
Today the Brown Thomas Brigade no longer care – the sale of luxury goods goes up and up, and the divide between the wealthy and the poor has widened and widened, decimating an already struggling middle class.
And you can be sure that we’ll never forget The culture of vultures and dealers and debt The struggles and troubles, the gold, white and green So much for our beautiful 1916 John Buckley McQuaid ‘Prodigal Kiss’
So we have replaced foreign oppressors with our own.
Class Solidarity
Class solidarity and resistance against oppression is necessary around the world today, but this nation has an extremely important role to play, and is surely judged by how it treats its vulnerable – the young – sure stick them in hotel bedrooms where they can’t even learn how to crawl – the sick – let them drop dead on waiting lists – and the old – let them die in nursing homes.
As capitalism consumes itself, we witness the consequences globally, increasingly powerful vested interests hold sway in so called democracies, polarising the divide, the social fabric disintegrates, and the world begins to convulse.
We have witnessed Brexit, Trump, civil unrest, our own electoral shifts, the established powers clinging on as the centre weakens, and the left and the right finding themselves curious bedfellows in opposing the establishment. All the while in this country, we have:
Trotters trotting to the trough. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Homeless Hotels’ (unpublished)
So what would a visitor from the past witness here? If Oisin were to return from the land of his youth:
His heart is still young ‘though he’s long in the tooth For want of a horse, he’ll be taking the Luas He used to be cool now he’s yesterday’s news. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Prodigal Kiss’
Maybe he’d notice the cherished children of the nation queueing outside the GPO. Maybe he’d
notice the obscenity of the tents in the city and the spectral figures begging for money. He might not even be sure what century he was in. He might notice the undeserving child eating its dinner off the ground outside the GPO.
So we had the Mother and Baby homes, the Industrial schools, the orphanages, the Magdalene laundries, the lunatic asylums, the Ferns report, the Ryan report…. those Girls who lived in hell:
Where cruelty prevailed
In gardens with forbidden trees
Whose walls we never scaled
John Buckley McQuaid ‘Girls Who Lived In Hell
What of the babies they left on our doorsteps What of the innocent girls that they shamed What of the idols they fearfully worshipped What of the bones that they buried unnamed What of the tears they pretend not to notice What of the orphanage blood in our veins What of the postcards that nobody posted Telling us where they could find the remains? John Buckley McQuaid ‘Dear Mister Taoiseach
Today we have our homeless hostels:
Children living on the street, leave these premises by ten, Every day’s a new defeat, seven, they’ll be back again John Buckley McQuaid ‘Here In Deirdre Land’
The homeless, who are forced:
To scrounge for a crust, and curse the hyenas betraying our trust. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Homeless Hotels’
Today we live in an open air Magdalene laundry, again sanctioned by the State, (and there are no high walls,) where the vulnerable are shoved into single rooms in hotels, battened on by private interests – if they’re in the way, they can be shovelled into a machine to clear them off the streets.
In the land of polished halos, nothing ever changes….
Undercurrent of Sadness
The undercurrent of sadness on this album by John Buckley McQuaid, himself an emigrant who lives in Denmark, is something that will actually suck you in, challenging the paralysis, indifference and passivity here, the ongoing connivance with the Church:
There’s a crowd of ghosts on O Connell Street And a spire where a pillar used to be Now the city boasts a mighty tourist fleet While the Liffey’s full of longing for the sea…. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Prodigal Kiss’
Nothing ever changes. Nothing ever changes, in the land of polished halos…….
Comfort’s a terribly cruel addiction, Comfort may never be cured, Comfort is closing its eyes to affliction Comfort just won’t be disturbed John Buckley McQuaid ‘Comfort Just Won’t Be Disturbed’ (unpublished lyric)
The prod of a pitchfork might cure it.
There’s a distant sound of drumming From the prisons of the poor Soon the pitchforks will be coming To administer the cure.
We should hang ourselves in private
For the greater common good And they dared us to survive it Or to write it down in blood. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Likes Of You And Me’ (unpublished lyric)
The depressed souls in our world serve a useful function – the first to be picked off in a dysfunctional, valueless world – as an unheeded warning to the stampeding herd hurtling over a cliff.
Sins of the Father
The children of the Celtic rodent may bang away on their pianos, but the Sins of the Father will be visited on them.
Dreams may be real for the freaks and the fools Finding employments like winning the pools Thats why we sent him to all the right schools Freedom is freedom to follow our rules John Buckley McQuaid ‘Follow Our Rules’ (unpublished lyric)
And what of this boy? I’m looking for a child With a heart of gold Stars in his eyes And a long way to go. John Buckley McQuaid ‘Looking For A Child’ (from the album Call It Love)
The Dreams of a child. The Dreams of a nation. Who dreams of being a pig?
Take a look in that cracked looking glass, and you may see the reflection of a lipsticked pig, possibly your own. You might ask yourself the question: is compassion possible in a land with a legacy of Church and State being so inextricably intertwined?
In this benighted ‘Republic,’ spectral beggars haunt the streets of Dublin, soup kitchens multiply, and the sick lie in agony on hospital trolleys. The ‘booming’ economy is really a country where working people are known to live in cars, and some of the nation’s children bring toilet paper to school (no, it’s not Venezuela).
The Taoiseach (such a dude) has serious decisions to make, on what socks to wear, and Pop Stars to meet; a truly punishing schedule posing for Irish Times photo shoots. In Dáil Éireann, meanwhile, the Minister for Trolleys and overpaid Consultants, along with the Minister for Homelessness, make speeches on ‘progress,’ but the Great Unwashed have had enough of hapless politicians falling on their arses.
There is not a single intellectual voice raised above the clamour of sniping; Mary Lou is screeching at everyone, while fashion icon Michael Healy-Rae advocates for drunken driving – in short, a confederacy of clowns.
The state broadcaster RTE offers up an unwholesome diet of Donald Trump’s choice in burgers, and even the odd scallion recipe. Towering minds like Ray D’Arcy discuss dogs barking (now it really would be something if a dog meowed!), and we are simply riveted by ‘Tubs’ interviewing female soap stars about plastic surgery (when it is some of the fellas who need it…).
In mainstream print media we find hysterical articles about Russia, and Fintan O’Toole bellyaching about the Brits, and missing the point of it all. This apparent collective collapse in national IQ is almost certainly a conspiracy to sedate the mutinous instincts of the scruffy oppressed.
Yet revolution is nigh, and leading the way is a committed group of journalists behind Cassandra Voices, a new online and print magazine.
We desperately need independent media, so I was delighted to attend the launch of Cassandra Voices II. Donning overalls, and packing my copy of Das Kapital (and a pike for good measure), I went along to Ian Lumley’s unique residence on Henrietta Street, where a crowd was mustering in the fading evening light.
There I encountered documentary filmmaker Sé Merry Doyle, that well known champion of the downtrodden masses, greeting guests with camera poised as they entered the building. Frank Armstrong, the slightly dishevelled editor, was standing on the steps, and rebellion was is in the air. Milling around inside were a ragtag collection of aspiring Marxists, legendary lunatics, self-confessing anarchists and dissenting intellectuals, murmuring sweet-seditious-nothings to one-another amidst neoclassical sculptures in the ghostly venue.
It was a pleasure to find so many beautiful young revolutionaries (and that was just the menfolk!) under the same roof. Storming around filling glasses was dashing Comrade Ruadhan Mac Eoin, there followed by Comrade Daniele Idini, of Sardinian descent it is said … just like Antonio Gramsci … and nearby Comrade Ilsa Monique Carter was adding a dash of New Orleans glamourto the mix.
Before the speechifying, Cora Venus Lunny improvised a wonderful piece on the violin, evoking a mad genius, before segueing into haunting melodies. Then Frank eloquently introduced the magazine, and Bob Quinn, that long-time critic of venal corruption, warmly welcomed the magazine, featuring his mug on the cover alongside Muammar Gaddafi – it’s a long story…
Mingling among the revolutionary throng, I encountered Comrade Ronan Sheehan (soon to publish a book of translations of Cuban poetry). We spoke about class struggle, neo-liberalism, and laissez unfair economics. ‘Einstein’s your man,’ I opined. ‘Believed the worker should seize the means of production. A great economist altogether.’
Before Ronan had a chance to recite his beloved Catullus, I had beetled off to refill my glass, and came across Comrade Jim McGurk, delicately quaffing his own tipple. He was in deep conversation with yet another revolutionary about Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle. ‘Ah sure that’s old hat’ I proclaimed. ‘He was onto the protons and the neurons alright, but he missed the morons – the cause of it all.’
A few more comrades joined as I held the stage: ‘Democracy cannot survive in a capitalist system,’ I asserted, ‘because it will be overtaken by oppressive elites. Socialism can’t survive without democracy, I added. My voice rose to an impassioned crescendo: ‘Comrades” I said, ‘whether you’ve a capitalist system of government, revolutionary communism, or anything in between, it will be sabotaged because the men will make a pig’s mickey of it all.’
‘I think a woman should be put in charge – such as myself,’ I proposed. An awed silence followed thereafter, not a murmur of descent to be heard.
The evening wound down with the Dublin premier of Bob Quinn’s film ‘Bog Graffitti’, (introduced by the indefatigable Merry Doyle), containing an apocalyptic vision of a dying planet, evoked by insects writhing in agony, and set to music by Roger Doyle. Later on, I’m told, there was more music from Italian songster Massimiliano Galli.
In this haunting building there was a sense of something waiting to be being born, a new dawn perhaps. Indeed, as the sound of the fiddle wafted through the house, I had the distinct impression of the Rough Beast taking off like a scalded cat. Three cheers for Cassandra!
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