Category: Uncategorized

  • Brazil’s Struggle for Life is a Global Concern

    The year began darkly in Brazil. On January 1st, 2019, Jair Messias Bolsonaro was sworn in as President of the largest and richest nation in South America. In his inauguration speech, Bolsonaro stressed his commitment to liberate Brazil, ‘from socialism, inverted values, the bloated state and political correctness’, and called for ‘Brazil above everything, and God above everyone.’[i]

    This far-right authoritarian presidency represents a new era for the nation, featuring unrestricted attacks on environmental protection, human rights movements and social inclusion. Dismissing democratic ideals, his neo-liberal philosophy envisions opening protected reserves to the agribusiness and extractive sectors; reducing crime through liberalising gun possession; and recovering the Judeo-Christian tradition, by marginalising vulnerable groups.

    This new era threatens not only the rainforest and minorities but also democracy, and the world´s fragile climate.

    (c) Fellipe Lopes

    The effect of polarising discourses on an impressionable population

    Bolsonaro was elected in October 2018, vowing to fight corruption and reduce criminality, using an iron fist. Almost fifty-eight million electors supported his messianic message, elevating him to power.

    Removed from any understanding of the complexity of social justice and inclusion, the former army captain promises oppressive power, with armed force on the streets.

    At first sight, his election was a response to a growing disillusionment with the political system. Countless politico-financial scandals and institutional corruption have brought many Brazilians to a stage of hopelessness. People were angry and disenchanted by previous administrations. Voters looked to a saviour, and demanded change, in the shape of this warlike army captain.

    Bolsonaro’s polarising and polemical rhetoric spoke to the fear and dissatisfaction of millions. His campaign manipulated these sentiments, attacking opponents, and promising economic prosperity alongside ultra-conservative Christianity. This formula gained traction through social media and WhatsApp groups that relentlessly spread his message, as well as disseminating fake news about opponents.

    In the past, as a member of the Congress he has openly approved of torture[ii], offending women, indigenous populations, black people and the LGBTQ community. He has made homophobic, xenophobic, racist and misogynist remarks his hallmark.

    Some of his outrageous statements include[iii]:

    • ‘‘The Brazilian cavalry was too incompetent. The American cavalry showed competence in exterminating their Indian populations in the past, nowadays they don’t have this problem anymore.’[iv]
    • ‘I had four sons, but then I had a moment of weakness, and the fifth was a girl.’[v]
    • ‘I would not be capable of loving a homosexual son … I would prefer to see him die in a car accident.’[vi]
    • ‘You can be sure that if I get there [the presidency], there will be no money for NGOs. If it is up to me, every citizen will have a gun at home.’
    • ‘The scum of the world [referring to refugees] is arriving in Brazil as if we didn’t have enough problems to solve’[vii]
    • Trying to invade the West and subject us to this aberration.’ – caption of a video posted on his official Facebook page.[viii]

    His well-publicised hate speeches did not discourage people of all economic classes and social groups from voting for him. On the contrary, the lack of political correctness brought comfort and emboldened those in step with such a tone.

    Many of his supporters interpret the aggressive messages embedded in his speeches as speaking truth to power, or as bringing down the hypocrisy of political correctness. They dismiss the dangerous violence in his words and gestures, including the celebrated simulation of firing a gun with his fingers. This reveals the submerged prejudices of many Brazilians. As a society we must recognise these, and transform in order to move forward.

    This is a period in which the language of political leaders, such as Bolsonaro and Trump, paves the way for the dehumanisation of certain social groups, including indigenous populations, women, black people, LGBTQ community and refugees. These groups are confined to zones of social and political exclusion, in landscapes of abandonment and forgetfulness; dispossessing their lives of intrinsic value and meaning.

    With Bolsonaro’s signature of presidential decrees, his worldview expands into attacks on environmental reserves and wild animals, leading to ecological death.

    (c) Fellipe Lopes

    The disastrous first thirty days

    Only a month in office,[ix] and the new head of the Brazilian state has already signed numerous problematic presidential decrees into law, sided with fascist regimes such as Israel, Italy, Hungary and America, and nominated untrustworthy ministers.

    Among the most alarming is the transfer of powers over indigenous territory to the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Agriculture. Brazil is already the most dangerous country in the world for environmental activists.[x] This move, alongside the demonization of activists amidst a culture of impunity, is likely to foment further violence, and expand deforestation.

    The agribusiness lobby has also managed to reduce bureaucratic oversight in obtaining environmental licenses, with the objective of further deforestation and expansion of agricultural plantation and mining in the Amazon.

    Amazon River (c) Bartholomew Ryan.

    In 2018, the country registered a 13.7% increase in deforestation, the heaviest annual toll for a decade[xi]. With the eradication of NGOs, this is likely to break further records over the coming years.

    After lifting controls on deforestation in the Amazon region, in response to lobbying by the agribusiness and extraction industry, the administration has been hit with its first major humanitarian and ecological crisis.

    On January 25th a dam, constructed to facilitate mining, collapsed[xii] in Brumadinho, south-eastern Brazil, releasing a toxic wave of mud which swamped human lives, houses and surrounding rivers. So far at least thirty-four people are known to have died, with nearly three hundred missing. This is not the first mining dam to have collapsed in the region. Three years ago, the city of Mariana and the Sweet River was engulfed by a similarly deadly tide, containing waste from a nearby iron-ore mine. This was the worst ecological crime in Brazilian history.[xiii] Vale, the company responsible for both disasters, has not been held to account for the Mariana disaster, and continues its activities, without regard to environmental laws.

    A day prior to being hospitalised to remove a colostomy bag, the consequence of a stabbing at a presidential campaign rally in September 2018, Bolsonaro flew over the disaster zone with his Environmental Minister, and mining lobbyist, Ricardo Salles. Despite creating a crisis management office and deploying the armed forces in support of rescue missions in the area, the president referred to the disaster as an ‘accident’. He refuses to commit to prosecuting Vale for its crimes against people and natures. This is in stark contrast to the iron fist he vows to wield against organised crime and corruption.

    The president´s environmental discourses and measures are a deadly combination whose impacts will have global repercussions. The Amazon forest plays a key role in maintaining the world’s fragile climate. Its complex ecosystems is vital to sustaining life, including human life, on our planet. Accelerating its destruction is catastrophic for us all.

    Yet the reality of climate change is deemed an ideology and ‘Marxist plot’[xiv] by the incoming Minister for Foreign Affairs, Ernesto Araújo.

    The first thirty days also included withdrawal from the UN Migration Pact, signed in December 2018; a decree simplifying restriction on gun possession; and an award to Israel’s Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu of Brazil’s most prestigious medal for foreign dignitaries, among other disastrous measures.

    Now a financial scandal has erupted involving Bolsonaro’s eldest son and recently elected senator, Flavio Bolsonaro. This political dynasty won the trust of the electorates with a high moral tone, guaranteeing to sweep corruption away. This revelation, however, of suspicious payments and cash flows, involving Flavio Bolsonaro, his former bodyguard and driver, and Bolsonaro’s wife, is pointing to money laundering, and staining their reputation. The Supreme Court Justice suspended the investigation at the request of Flavio Bolsonaro, but it may resume in February.

    (c) Fellipe Lopes

    A ray of hope

    We are yet to comprehend fully what the social impacts of the 2018 election will be. Already, it is widening existing fissures within Brazilian society, and distancing people on opposing sides of a political chasm. There is conflict and separation, blaming and shaming. Nevertheless, all of us are permeated by the same toxic atmosphere.

    Whatever we agree or disagree on, Brazilians share a common future. We are tied together, with each other, and with the whole planet. The destruction of our forests and pollution of our waters is the erosion of our social fabric and the pollution of our bodies.

    An exploitative economic and political system which disdains to acknowledge the inter-connectedness between all life is destined to collapse eventually. But this failure has a human cost, and brings untold suffering.

    To avoid our social and ecological death, we must view the world with awakened eyes, re-humanising our vision to see nature and people as one. Then we will revere the intrinsic value of all life.

    We need real leaders to invest our trust in to guide us through these dark times. It is time for politicians to unite us under a common vision of justice, sustainability and inclusion. Let us hold hands and bring to life an understanding of our humaneness.

    The feature image by Vitor Schietti was awarded first place in the national contest Como somar num mundo em conflito in 2016. It was taken in Jericoacoara, in the state of Ceará, in 2013. The other images were kindly provided by Felipe Lopes and Bartholomew Ryan.

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    [i] Dom Phillips, ‘Bolsonaro declares Brazil’s ‘liberation from socialism’ as he is sworn in’, January 1st, 2019, The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/jan/01/jair-bolsonaro-inauguration-brazil-president, accessed 28/1/19.

    [ii] Fernanda Trisotta, ‘”dia que Bolsonaro quis matar FHC, sonegar impostos e declarar guerra civil”

    Leia mais em: https://www.gazetadopovo.com.br/politica/republica/o-dia-que-bolsonaro-quis-matar-fhc-sonegar-impostos-e-declarar-guerra-civil-8mtm0u0so6pk88kqnqo0n1l69/

    Copyright © 2019, Gazeta do Povo, accessed 18/1/19.

    [iii] Eliane Brum, ‘How a homophobic, misogynist, racist ‘thing’ could be Brazil’s next president’, October 6th, 2018, The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/oct/06/homophobic-mismogynist-racist-brazil-jair-bolsonaro, accessed 18/1/19.

    [iv] Chico Mares, ‘#Verificamos: É verdade que Bolsonaro elogiou cavalaria norte-americana por dizimar índios’, December 6th, 2018, Lupa, https://piaui.folha.uol.com.br/lupa/2018/12/06/verificamos-bolsonaro-cavalaria/ accessed 18/1/19.

    [v] Bolsonaro: “Eu tenho 5 filhos. Foram 4 homens, a quinta eu dei uma fraquejada e veio uma mulher”, April 6th, 2017, YouTube, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cp1GdBx32CM.

    [vi] Untitled, ‘DEPUTADO JAIR BOLSONARO FALA DA ‘PROMISCUIDADE DE PRETA GIL’ E DECLARA QUE ‘SERIA INCAPAZ DE AMAR UM FILHO HOMOSSEXUAL’ EM ENTREVISTA’, June 7th, 2011, Extra https://extra.globo.com/famosos/deputado-jair-bolsonaro-fala-da-promiscuidade-de-preta-gil-declara-que-seria-incapaz-de-amar-um-filho-homossexual-em-entrevista-1980933.html, accessed 28/1/19.

    [vii] Untitled, ‘Ouça entrevista em que Bolsonaro chama refugiados de “escória” e sugere infarto a Dilma’, September 21st, 2015, Jornal Opção, https://www.jornalopcao.com.br/ultimas-noticias/ouca-entrevista-em-que-bolsonaro-chama-refugiados-de-escoria-e-sugere-infarto-a-dilma-46313/, accessed 28/1/19.

    [viii] Jair Messias Bolsonaro, January 6th, 2019, Official Facebook Page, https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=1340804376068545&id=211857482296579, accessed 28/1/19.

    [ix] Elizabeth Gonzalez and Luisa Leme, ‘Tracking the First 100 Days of Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro’, January 22nd, 2019, American Society / Council of the Americas. https://www.as-coa.org/articles/tracking-first-100-days-brazilian-president-jair-bolsonaro, accessed 28/1/19.

    [x] Lilian Campelo| Edition: Juca Guimarães, ‘Report: Brazil is deadliest country for environmental activists; 57 killed in 2017’, 1st of August, 2018, Friends of the MST, https://www.mstbrazil.org/news/report-brazil-deadliest-country-environmental-activists-57-killed-2017, accessed 28/1/19.

    [xi] Dom Phillilps, ‘Brazil records worst annual deforestation for a decade’, November 24th, 2018, The Guardian, https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2018/nov/24/brazil-records-worst-annual-deforestation-for-a-decade, accessed 28/1/19.

    [xii] Manuela Andreoni and Shasta Darlington,  ‘With Hundreds Missing Following Burst Brazil Dam, a Frantic Search for Survivors’, January 26th, 2019, The New York Times, https://www.nytimes.com/2019/01/26/world/americas/brazil-dam-break.html?action=click&module=Latest&pgtype=Homepage, accessed 28/1/19.

    [xiii] Folha de sa Paulo, ‘Year Of Mud, The Heavy Toll Of Brazil’s Worst Ever Ecological Disaster’, March 11th, 2016, World Cruch, https://www.worldcrunch.com/green-or-gone-1/year-of-mud-the-heavy-toll-of-brazils-worst-ever-ecological-disaster, accessed 28/1/19.

    [xiv] Rute Coelho, ‘Minister calls climate change a ‘Marxist plot’, November 16th, 2018, Plataforma,  https://www.plataformamedia.com/en-uk/news/politics/interior/minister-calls-climate-change-a-marxist-plot-10188562.html?target=conteudo_fechado, accessed 28/1/19.

  • A Monk Manqué II: Thaura Mornton

    Back to love and sex. Liking is preferable to loving – and less conducive to heartache. Youth is oblivious to that boring truth.

    The unbiddable first love of my life lived in Terenure, Dublin, a half a mile away from me and I called her Thaura Mornton. We were equally devoted to amateur theatricals.

    She was sixteen when I, returned from my first migration to London, standing in the wings of the Marian Hall, Milltown, first saw her onstage singing ‘Tony from America’, a number from Lionel Monckton’s ‘Quaker Girl’ musical comedy. In the middle of the song she grinned offstage and winked at me. I was smitten. She was an elusive butterfly and led me in a delightful gavotte during the years when I was a recidivist emigrant. Thaura was spirited, an only and over-protected child. Her loving father once warned me that whatsoever male harmed her would find a loaded shotgun lodged in his posterior. And discharged.

    At night, therefore, she would climb through her bathroom window, negotiate the roof of a rickety shed and make her way to the hop in Templeogue Lawn Tennis club, amongst whose hormonal boys and girls was the much-adored rugby international, Tony (later Sir Anthony) O’Reilly.

    Inevitably Thaura became pregnant, sadly not by Tony or me, had her baby adopted – in the nineteen fifties girls had little choice – and was taken on a grand tour of Europe by her maiden aunt. I still possess the single  breathless postcard she sent me from Rome; ‘Everything is so beautiful’, she wrote.

    When she returned she still led me in a merry dance of frustration and obsession. When I saw the film Carmen Jones – Hammerstein’s improvement on Bizet’s opera – I understood her better. She even looked like Dorothy Dandridge. For me she was that love which is ‘a baby that grows up wild and won’t do what you want it to’. But the chase was everything. I saw her as untamed, the perfect companion for my adventures.

    When the Betty Ann Norton School of Acting decided to put on an amateur production of Thornton Wilder’s ‘Our Town’ they cast Thaura and myself in the lead parts of George & Emily. My joy was unconfined: my romantic delusion and myself would be working closely together every night for a few weeks. The idyll lasted a single rehearsal when the director became ill and the show was cancelled. Life went frustratingly on, punctuated by hard-earned rendevouz which the lady in question often cancelled at short notice. I simply could not understand her.

    However, walking her home one evening after a film in the Theatre De Luxe cinema in Camden St., she demanded: ‘When are you going to get a real job and settle down?’ At twenty-one I had already been a bored civil servant, factory worker, failed student and aspirant writer, unemployed again.

    The penny dropped; she wanted security, had become broody. Her question made me realise that even her irrepressible spirit had bowed to the ambitions of muddle-class slurbia. It was like the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. She had contracted ordinariness, had capitulated to respectability, to browbeating nuns and Christian Brothers, to frowning teachers and concerned parents to whose concerns I had never managed to pay attention – which fault  she had easily identified in me. I was not what she actually wanted in a mate.  So, as per usual I ran and as usual was wrong.

    In the following years Thaura and I had the occasional brief reunion. Years passed before she kissed me goodnight with the softest lips in the world. I was on the point of emigrating again, this time to Canada and here was my lost love suggesting I take her with me. I thought long and hard, regretfully said no.  Her reverse capitulation had come too late. By that time I had also shifted my sights, adopted a different ambition, that of changing the world. It was by now the nineteen-sixties and I was still baying at the moon.

    Even more years later, each well married to strangers, Thaura and I together polished off a bottle of whiskey in one sitting. We laughed and mocked our younger selves until tears came to our eyes. I lost touch again, forever. I heard that she died sitting alone in her armchair, aged fifty something. We had never become, in the biblical sense, one.

    Bob Quinn, pictured in 1952.

    There always is, or should be, somebody like that in a life. James Joyce got it right in ‘The Dead’: a might-have-been love against which no subsequent union can compete.

    The need for the ‘one’, a real or imaginary at-onement, is a powerful urge springing from our time as protoplasmic life forms which reproduced themselves. They can’t have had much fun four million years ago… they merely split in two. Once those simple organisms were divided we were lost, like garden worms bisected by a spade, wriggling frantically to find our other half, condemned to seek a soulmate who would spiritually complete them – and  satisfy basic drives.

    ‘All man’s miseries’ wrote Blaise Pascal, ‘derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone.’

    Gradually, the  most elemental  human instinct was romanticised and called love. Worse, for us naïve Catholic youngsters the delightful illusions of romance were transubstantiated into a spiritual straitjacket. In Christian circles it was called ‘atonement’ and cleverly channelled into a guilt trip about sins to be atoned for. What a joke! We would have been better left to our own devices, even if it meant being Tom Eliot’s ‘ragged claws, scuttling across the floors of silent seas’. The psychic wounds acquired in that battle between religion and libido left scars forever unhealed and unsuccessfully ignored.  Ask any celibate priest.

    Religion was the first and most successful multinational industry in Ireland. The only native entrepreneur who could compete with it was Arthur Guinness. My father and one brother each spent forty years in St. James Gate Brewery constructing barrels for Uncle Arthur’s brew. This aversion therapy meant that neither died of the free beer or ruined livers, the fate of many of their fellow tradesmen.

    Before Guinness arrived the  Irish Bishop seems to have made an unspoken pact with the Irish Politician: ‘You keep ‘em poor and we’ll keep ‘em ignorant’. Soon he made another treaty, this time with Arthur Guinness: ‘We’ll keep ‘em ignorant and you keep ‘em drunk’.

    The Bishop would never tolerate earthly aspirations. His and the brewer’s captive imbibers of Faith ended up as guilt-ridden, frustrated, self-flagellating, unhappy topers. Many intelligent Irish males suffered this fate and justified silent movie star Louise Brooks’ description of us as ‘the worst lovers in the world’. Some did their best to avoid emasculation. They became entertainers, poets, novelists, journalists, fast talkers, hustlers, petty criminals, moneylenders, politicians, bankers and other drunks. But they kept on wearing the green jersey  and going to mass on Sunday.

    My father was a lifelong teetotaller because his own father – also a cooper, as were all his forefathers back to 1798 – had died young and alcoholic. In my long life I may have consumed beer  enough for all three of us.

    Drunkenness was a sin; but did you know that the respectable business of banking was also once a sin, worse, a ‘mortaller’, as we knew it. In more frank times  banking was called usury or money-lending and was damned by the major religions. Now the innocuous term ‘banking’ covers a multitude of heinous crimes in comparison with which drinking  is akin to being in a state of grace. Banking is no less than usury in a collar and tie. At least pawnbrokers were a service for the poor. On Fridays, on my way home from Synge Street school in the No. 83 bus queue at Leonard’s Corner I would notice weary Kimmage housewives bearing their husband’s good suits home, having redeemed them from the pawn shops in Camden street where the  precious garments had lain since Monday morning as security for borrowed money.

    Up to medieval times the only people forced to dirty their hands with lucre and commit the sin of lending at exorbitant rates were Jews because they weren’t allowed do anything else. When that talented people demonstrated what an excellent way it was to make money, the Christians (notably the de Medicis in Florence and the merchants of Venice) took over the business – ‘How odd of God to choose the Jews’ – damned the unfortunates as God-killers and respectabilised their own unscrupulous moneylenders by calling them bankers. As Gore Vidal pointed out, human beings are enemies of all vice that is not directly profitable.

    Historical, anti- Anti-semitism’s roots may be a perverse symptom of Christian guilt. i.e. embracing the sin, hating the sinner.

    Read the first installment of Bob Quinn’s memoir here.

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  • Artist of the Month – Ruth Lyons

    Salarium 230 million BCE – Ongoing – We are salted by the salt of this palace

    The Zechstein Sea is an ancient body of salt water, now existing as a geological seam of salt extending across Northern Europe from Ireland to Russia. As the seam progresses eastwards and deepens into what was a body of salt water, the mineral content changes and the colour and density of the salt varies: giving rise to brown salt in Ireland; a grey colour in the UK; red and blue in Germany; and white in Poland.

    As part of an ongoing project I have been creating carvings from rocks found in salt mines acrosss Europe tapping into this seam. These vessels range from a roughly hewn rock to a finely carved bowl; they are a manifestation of this ancient sea, an enduring connection that defies contemporary borders and nation states. At the same time, the forms reflect their simple origins in the collosal power of today’s mining industry: the digging out of the earth and the hollows that remain.

    Salt is hygroscopic by nature. It has a need to absorb water, in essence to return to being the sea. Given this property, the vessels are unusable objects. Rather they are hosts, a symbol of openness and a meditation on the extraordinary world of little things, conveying the idea of the sea contained in a salt crystal.

    Salarium is made possible and facilitated by EUSalt, an umbrella association for European salt workers. Following an initial expression of interest in the concept of the project, EUSalt have supported Salarium through an annual commission of salt carvings that serve as awards and gifts for presenters and exemplary mines at their annual GA Salt summit. In this respect the economy of Salarium has become an essential structural element in the project, which is not simply a faciliating force, but a conceptual cornerstone to its formation.

    The title ‘Salarium’ refers to the economic value of salt within the relatively short spectrum of recorded human history, and the seminal role that it has played as the origins of ‘salary’ in the development of the contemporary economy. As geologists consider the end of the Holocene and the onset of a new geological epoch, Salarium (230 million BCE- Ongoing) offers a punctuation, a hollow, a space to consider human legacy and the transience of economic value.

    Elements of Salarium will be on show at:

    Talbot Rice Gallery, Edinburgh

    23 February – 4 May 2019

    Borderlines

    with Lara Almarcegui, Rossella Biscotti, Lonnie van Brummelen & Siebren de Haan, Willie Doherty, Nuria Güell, Ruth E. Lyons, Amalia Pica, Khvay Samnang, Santiago Sierra, Mona Vatamanu & Florin Tudor.

    National Gallery of Ireland

    20 April – 7 July 2019

    Shaping Ireland: Landscapes in Irish Art

    www.ruthelyons.com

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    [Best_Wordpress_Gallery id=”27″ gal_title=”Ruth Lyons”]

  • Explaining the Shutdown with Trump’s Magic Eightball

    Hegel remarks somewhere that all great world-historic facts and personages appear, so to speak, twice. He forgot to add: the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce. Caussidière for Danton, Louis Blanc for Robespierre, the Montagne of 1848 to 1851 for the Montagne of 1793 to 1795, the nephew for the uncle.
    (‘The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte’, Karl Marx, 1852)

    One might add a third instance to Hegel’s comment via Marx—a phase where it all devolves into a lesser sequel to Dumb and Dumber. On a fundamental level, the Fox and Friends-fueled ‘crisis’ over what is clearly a profoundly bad and ruinously expensive idea — a massive wall (or steel palisade, or whatever) across a massive and often inhospitable border is gratuitously unnecessary, the product of dimwitted hubris and incipient dementia coupled with an antiquated political system.

    But this is America, and unlike a shitty sequel, we cannot simply decide to give the film a miss and… ride a bike or binge-watch on PornHub or something. Or maybe enjoy that glass of Kendall Jackson Chardonnay in peace without having to wonder how the dolt of a president will force you to pay attention to politics (or even that AOC retweet from one’s Bernie Bro nephew).

    Image (c) Contantino Idini

    Aside from the hardcore Trump supporter, and angry racist Fox News Grandpa, it isn’t as if anyone thought it was a good idea. Okay, by the most generous polls, 43% of the population believe the wall might be a good idea, which is to say that the country may be slightly less racist than one was afraid it was.

    Still, though, this is the opposite of overwhelming support, and while the approval for the shutdown hovered at around 22%, we had a president from the less popular of the two major parties who lost the popular vote causing and overwhelmingly unpopular shutdown over an in-your-face-racist wall that most people don’t want, and he can get away with it due to this country’s antiquated political system — and because while the wall is unpopular, it’s still polling at 87% among Republicans, and Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell doesn’t want to get primaried by a more drooling-prone version of himself. And this is democracy. Apparently.

    So how can this kind of situation be avoided? Within the framework of the U.S. Constitution the repeated House votes under Democratic control have about as much effect as all those votes to repeal Obamacare did when Republicans controlled the House and the Democrats held the presidency.

    Grassroots? Again, the population as a whole isn’t the demographic Mitch McConnell (or Rush Limbaugh or Ann Coulter) serves — it’s the elderly white suburbanites who’ve never actually been on the receiving end of a crime by a person of color, but who saw a meme on Facebook that was really scary, and whose notion of God is, if Protestant, informed by megachurch Prosperity Gospel and if Catholic, same as the Protestants, but with an Ave Maria and child-buggery chucked in.

    A considerable if not commanding majority rightly views such people with suspicion and contempt and tells such members of said demographic who are blood relatives to shut the fuck up when they opine that ‘black people didn’t used to mind being called the n-word’ at the Thanksgiving dinner table. But these people vote, and they are the make-or-break demographic in the Republican primaries.

    Meanwhile, on the ‘left,’ aside from the welcome continued growth of the socialist-and anarchist Real Deal, the #Resistance spent the shutdown tearing itself up over whether it was better for the Women’s March to cheer for Louis Farrakhan or an Israeli strafe run on a Palestinian village, while continuing to take no real steps to open up the movement into something where marchers can do anything other than make up the numbers.

    Cries of ‘Russiarussiarussia’ continue to abound, particularly at those who have the temerity to criticize the media-favored Democratic Party candidate du jour (at the moment of this writing, former prosecutor Kamala Harris, whose website has no policies laid out but does have merch. for sale).

    We’re almost two years away from the 2020 general election, yet the rancor and brain rot of the American presidential campaign season has set in. And being Americans in a neo-liberal hellscape of a job market, the overwhelming majority of federal employees didn’t quit despite not being paid for a month.

    However, the mere threat of airport and airline workers actually walking off the job was what actually broke the shutdown (contra #Resistance Twitter, which has begun to operate on the mistaken assumption that Nancy Pelosi is a brain-genius), indicating that the potential power of the working class in strategic industries shouldn’t be dismissed as something for the second verse of a Pete Seeger song.

    Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez calls for the electoral college to be abolished.

    Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez was absolutely right to call for the abolition of the antiquated Electoral College system that keeps giving us presidents who decisively lost the popular vote, but it’s not enough. As a whole mass of American historiography has amply demonstrated, the American Constitutional system was designed to limit the power of what Alexander Hamilton called ‘the great beast,’ by which he meant the voting public.

    Many of the problems in American politics are not reducible to governmental structures — the dictatorship of capital and associated rampant inequality and looming ecological catastrophe have no obvious technocratic solution (sorry, Elizabeth Warren) — but the Constitutional fetishism of both major American parties makes serious discussions about significantly changing an effectively anti-democratic and deliberately unwieldy basic structure of government radically difficult.

    So, apparently, Trump’s magic eight-ball told him to change course, and we’re no longer stuck with the stupid fucking shutdown and uninspected meat and vegetables and vandalism in the national parks, but we still have the MAGA-hatted Republicans and #Resistance Democrats… and more of this. And very little impetus to force our rulers to change the system that makes things like this happen again and again

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  • Who Needs a Healing?

    In the inner world, time has a way of standing still long enough so you can come to your senses.  Then you can have eyes that see and ears that hear. My Aunt Jewel taught me this more by example than with words. She had no use for words and she wasn’t really my aunt. Mama, a divorcée from Mississippi, had married into Auntie’s Choctaw Indian family one-day shy of my first birthday. At four feet eleven with a heart as big as Texas, I could always count on her for a kind word and a tender voice.  Learning some of the old ways with her taught me that cause and effect can’t always be foretold much less recognized and controlled.

    My earliest memory of Auntie is the first time she took me to her one room church near the Little Cypress Bayou that flows through the Blue Elbow Swamp, eventually entering the Sabine River near I-10 in Orange, Texas.  The church, a tiny clapboard painted white with a piney wood floor and a few benches, was where the beleaguered believers felt they belonged.

    “Who needs a HEALING” screamed Preacher, a red-faced man in black pants and a cheap white, sweat-soaked shirt that encased his gut, revealing a life time of buttery biscuits and sausage gravy.

    “Nancy Ann, I think ya got a fever” Auntie said aloud as her brown hand felt my white face.

    “No mam – I ain’t got no fever!

    “Yes, you do” she whispered as she firmly took me by the arm and guided me to the homemade dais.  Down on my knees I went with the weight of Auntie’s hand on my right shoulder.

    When Preacher caught his breath long enough to notice he had a child to work on, he began crying and wailed, “unless you change and become like this little child, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”  He held up a small bottle of Jerusalem Holy Oil, so all could behold the glorious healing about to occur.  As I looked up at Preacher, heartburn from that morning’s breakfast caused me mistakenly to believe it needed to be healed.

    “Child, do you want to be healed,” he asked while kneeling to better look me in the eye.

    “I think so.”

    The fears that bumped around in my already wizened seven-year-old psyche were very real.   I didn’t have the faith in the old ways like Auntie did.  My pagan mother had taught me to believe in the evil eye and being cursed and such, but not in the hell that Preacher and Auntie did.  To Mama, heaven was a piece of land, a good scotch with a good screw; something that made this life a little easier to bare.  Hell was in between your ears, right here, right now.

    “Child are you ready to confess your sins,” Preacher asked.

    “I think so.”

    “You think so,” he said with a faint smile.

    “Yes Sir.  I think so.”

    “Do you repent of all your sins, so you can be healed?”

    “Y e s . . . sir” slowly slipped from my lips and with that, I was suddenly looking up at the ceiling as Preacher held the back of my head, while making the sign of the cross on my third eye with his oily finger.  Auntie, already filled with the Holy Ghost, was speaking in tongues. My skinny little body began to swoon as it filled with the divine energy.   The room began to swirl, and I fell back on Aunt Jewel who slowly lowered me to the floor.

    “Praise God” she wailed.

    “Praise God” cried the congregants who were no longer quietly singing and humming along with the makeshift band.  Now they were making a loud and glorious music unto the Lord singing I’ll Fly Away as loud as possible:

    When the shadows of this life have gone
    I’ll fly away
    Like a bird from these prison walls I’ll fly
    I’ll fly away.

    As I lay there on the floor unable to get up and surrounded by all the wonderful beleaguered believers, my heart filled with joy and my nose filled with the scent of the myrrh and sweet-smelling cinnamon used to make the Jerusalem Holy Oil Preacher had used to heal me.  The singing was muffled as if far away,

    I’ll fly away, oh glory
    I’ll fly away in the morning
    When I die, Hallelujah by and by
    I’ll fly away.

    After what felt like an eternity, I was helped to my feet.  Everyone was beaming at me.  Auntie, grinning ear to ear, was hugging me up close and whispering now we got to git ya baptized baby girl.  Now we got to git ya baptized.

    “Yes Lord… I know Lord… Thank you Lord…” Preacher prayed while still on his knees.  His voice just loud enough so everyone could hear he was still conversing with Jesus.

    There was a static electricity in the room.  Every time someone came to hug me, there was a shock.  My hair was sticking out on end the way it does when you pull a sweater over your head in the winter.  But my stomach wasn’t burning anymore, and Auntie was so pleased with me she was promising a Dairy Queen double dip.

    While she was saying her goodbyes, I went outside to stand in the October chill.  It was a clear day with a slight breeze.  Looking up at the sun, I wondered if my heart got healed.  I wondered if a healing was the same as a protection. Mostly, I wondered what if Mama was right?  What if hell really is between your ears, right here, right now?  What then?

  • Fintan O’Toole’s Brexit Myopia

    As a freshly UK-embedded Irish barrister I am adjusting from confronting Ireland’s problems to addressing those of my new home. Worlds’apart, in a global village. In terms of Brexit, as far as the Irish media is concerned the Backstop, and a recrudescence of the ‘Irish Question’, is the only story, but from my perspective the border issue pales by comparison with the precarious position of Irish nationals resident on the UK mainland. All bets are off. In the Westminster extradition courts there is a growing apprehension among all non-nationals, amidst a descent into political farce. Eastern Europeans in particular are on red alert.

    I recently immersed myself in the Brexit literature (word used advisedly), a choice not unlike Christopher Hitchens consenting to undergo waterboarding. Most offer blow-by-blow accounts, and are an utter waste of time.

    By far the most useful and simultaneously useless book to emerge has been from that august man of letters, Irish Times columnist Fintan O’Toole. His Heroic Failure Brexit and The Politics of Pain (London, Apollo, 2018) suffers from a cultural myopia bordering on xenophobia. This account by an Irish-resident journalist is useless at providing any insight into the English character, but serves, nonetheless, as a useful vantage on the general superficiality of Irish political discourse.

    O’Toole rightly inveighs against neo-liberalism throughout his text, but fails to recognise the extent to which the Brexit vote was in certain respects a reaction to the rampages of this pernicious ideology of free market free-for-all. For some, Brexit embodies an attempt to preserve an innate decency in the English character, rather than selling-out to multinational or Eurocractic control.

    There endures a residue of decency in ‘old’ England – informed by secular and Christian socialist or liberal values – which are dying out rather faster in Ireland. Moreover, many argue that the UK should run a mile from the imposition of the austerity policies that liquidated the social structures of Ireland and Greece.

    O’Toole’s argument that Jacob Rees-Mogg, and others, are seeking detachment for the sake of further wealth accumulation is valid, but the denunciation of Brexit as economic folly and a lapse towards an unrealistic autarky is less persuasive. Seeing Brexit as simply a manifestation of national self-pity, combining grievance and superiority, or a racist attempt to curb immigration, neglects to consider the rising indignation that many British justifiably feel at the encroachment of faceless bureaucrats intent on imposing austerity. This is coupled with a rising contempt for a New Labour-led political correctness that never confronted the downsides, in terms of labour protection and integration, of mass migration.

    It is not simply a product of racism, a label O’Toole is too fond of flinging. Quoting Enoch Powell’s ‘Rivers of Blood’ speech is the sort of simplification favoured by those who reach for the Hitler label at student debates.

    Lazy Stereotypes

    Neo-liberalism favours immigration in order to drive down labour costs. O’Toole is thus passively endorsing that which he purports to condemn when he decries how lazy the UK workforce has become. He ought to acknowledge that the Irish workforce has not always been renowned for its commitment, which protected some of us from a premature death through exhaustion. Indeed the flâneur is a fabled specimen in Irish literature.

    As the jokes runs (in a droll Dublin accent): an Irish professor of literature was asked by his Spanish host at a conference in Spain whether there was a Gaelic word similar to the Spanish mañana. ‘Sure’ said the professor, ‘we have five words similar to mañana, but none convey quite the same sense of urgency.’

    Like O’Toole, Taoiseach Leo Varadkar favours a productive, early-rising population, shoehorned into unthinking and robotic work, leading to death on the instalment plan; zero hour contracts; meaningless corporate jobs; and the siphoning off of wealth to vulture funds controlled by off-shore multi-nationals.

    I vote for more leisure time. Who knows, it might lead the charmless O’Toole, and Varadkar his intellectual consort, to greater depths of analysis and cultural refinement.

    Fintan O’Toole fails to comprehend that Ireland is the perfect little neo-liberal shit storm, which has prompted the aforementioned Rees-Mogg to invest in our little meltdown, after the double-whammy of liquidation by the ECB and American transitional corporations.

    Britain, in its post-Brexit phase, cannot be described, as O’Toole purports to, in a reductive way. Yes, it is a society in existential crisis, but with many cross-currents. One cannot reduce this to a superiority complex, or colonial hangover. The pantomime villain qualities ascribed by O’Toole to the UK’s political caste are increasingly evident in politicians the world over.

    Boris Johnson may be an opportunistic clown, but he rarely put a foot wrong as Mayor of London. His books are even sometimes well written. If he is a clown he is a more civilised prankster than our gang of horribles: the tasteless Varadkar, gombeen Kenny, blathering drunk Cowen, and the good ol’ boys of the Law Library.

    Boris Johnson: a superior clown to our own vaudeville acts..

    O’Toole commits the common Irish error of confusing speaking seriously on serious issues, which he does not understand, with being serious. Gravitas should be leavened with wit, not outright hysterical or self-righteous condemnation. The clownish but observant Johnson actually realises the necessity for laughter in the darkness, in common with the more sinister congeniality of the arch-Machiavellian Michael Gove. They are smarter than O’Toole allows.

    Turning the lens

    The unvarying narrative in the mainstream Irish media is that Brexit is a disaster, not just for Ireland but also the UK. About this I am not so sure. Cultural imperialism and splendid isolationism are distasteful aspects of the British character, but Europe was always an uncomfortable fit for other reasons too. Snap judgments are misleading.

    Irish commentaries inevitably turn to what is in it for ‘us’, whether Europe, Brexit or anything else. Grubby calculation is an increasingly odious national characteristic, which clouds any assessment of whether it is the right path from a British perspective.

    Let us recall that the Irish brand of disaster capitalism involves the state providing tax breaks for multi-nationals, and appeasing Canadian and American vulture funds; the destruction of not just the working class but increasingly the middle. According to Social Justice Ireland, last year 790,000 people were living in poverty, of whom 250,000 were children.[i] How is this possible when GDP per capita is at almost seventy-five thousand euro?

    Though he condemns neo-liberalism, and indeed endorses legitimate outrage against European excesses, O’Toole is incapable of turning his lens on Ireland’s failings; or the receding possibility of reforming an EU increasingly beholden to corporate lobbyists.

    Superiority and self-pity are characteristic of Irish attitudes too: the no longer purring Celtic Tiger is a Paper Tiger. For generations we endured the lachrymose nationalism of a failing state, now we talk ourselves up as the best little country in the world. As Flann O’ Brians put it: ‘Moderation we find is a difficult thing to get in this country.’[ii]

    This sentimental patriotism fed into a grotesque over-estimate of our exceptionalism, which now permits the Mussolini-lite fascism, embodied by the grandstanding Varadkar, to go unchecked. Give me the incrementalism and resistance to the grandiosity of grand ideals that are a hallmark of historic British decency – tempering other aspects of the national character – any day.

    The English Sausage

    On a more mundane level, over breakfast in Bloomsbury, I reflected on the humble English sausage which helps gives an appreciation of the national character. Reading O’Toole’s overblown account of the British objection to EU bureaucratic regulation I found it a pity that he failed to mention the British sausage.

    The sausage is a geopolitical signifier. Its fate a precursor to Brexit, the fons et origo of all that has gone horribly wrong.

    Cast minds back to a kerfuffle at the inception of the EU, regarding the standardisation of the British sausage, and how incensed people became. With hindsight we see what could have gone wrong, and now has.

    As an Irishman, albeit one who is partly Austrian, and an internationalist – effectively now a mongrel warrior – I recall how we derided the British for being so small-minded about their precious sausage. Hindsight is of course twenty-twenty vision. The British were perhaps right, then and now. They were outraged, and continue to be, by a foreign order of bean counters telling them what to do, and preaching to them about standards. And what role models and standards emanate from the EU exactly?

    Then the story descended into silly season farce, but I think it remains emblematic and prescient of the tensions that have always existed between Britain and the EU.

    If they regulate a sausage then who is next among the pantheon of eccentrics that populate English public life, excoriated by O’Toole. People are increasingly standardised, like sausages, in modern Ireland. As an unapologetic eccentric, I am dismissive of technocratic robots and muppets. If the political consensus leads to neo-liberalism then give me the oddness O’Toole attacks, any day.

    The reclamation by O’Toole of British decency towards the end of the book, citing Orwell and parts of the Bloomsbury set, does not atone for the cack-handedness of his analysis of the English character.

    Face it Fintan there is something rotten in the state of Brussels

    Let us focus on what has been wrong with the EU from the outset, and which O’Toole unsatisfactorily broaches. Foremost has been the appointment of faceless bureaucrats at levels removed from local concerns, who impose a levelling conformity – here I am providing a clear distinction between standards and standardisation. Technocrats are invariably drawn from a privileged elite, selected through education for conformity, political-correctness and reliability. Then they are insulated in their silo bubble of privilege from the experiences of the common person.

    The salaries, junkets and gravy trains engender a bland sub-Americana esperenta by degrees; an Orwellian doublespeak that passes for education, breeding compliance and homogeneous uniformity.

    The idea that breaking down trade barriers and permitting the free movement of labour (including myself), capital and goods would promote tolerance, and enable cultural exchanges, amid the fiction of economic growth-without-end, made superficial sense at the outset. The very simple idea of Erasmus programmes and scholarly exchange has been a boon. The benefits are considerable, but the downside is increasingly apparent.

    Let us face it Fintan, the EU has become an instrument of international global capitalism, encouraging the mass migration of workers who are willing to work for less, and harder, than their domestic counterparts. Nothing wrong with hard graft and thrift, but what if indigenous jobs are threatened, and employment rights done away with? Why should people feel compelled to work themselves to an early grave, as in Japan? Unrestricted labour mobility suits the corporate agenda, but not workers. The British are entitled to be lazier or less hard-working than their European counterparts.

    Brexit is certainly in part an objection to mass migration. The moral evil of racism has been at work, but that should not be used as an excuse to suspend all judgment on the desirability of mass migration. A sovereign country ought to have some control over who enters, and on what terms; while those who settle in a new land should expect to make reasonable cultural accommodations. If unrestrained, multiculturalism can generate extremism among indigenous and new arrivals.

    The other major downside of a German-led EU has been the imposition of austerity policies, generating social fragmentation and breakdown, in Greece and Ireland in particular. Austerity, as all the best evidence indicates, rips societies apart and delays economic recovery. It represents the triumph of what Naomi Klein termed the corporatocracy,[iii] bringing control of the world to the mega-rich, who inflict poverty-by-degrees on the rest. Thus the transnational law firms and multinational corporations lobby the EU for TTIP, which would permit them to sue local governments for any diminution in their clients’ profits.

    Our increasingly neo-liberalist EU promotes the boom and bust cycle of the shock doctrine, pioneered when Milton Friedman visited Pinochet in Chile in the 1970’s to unleash his brainwashed Chicago graduates on the local population; just as Ireland was treated after the Bailout.

    Growth and development is achieved not by austerity but by the mixed social democratic economy, which provides incentives, but allows individuals to recover if there businesses fail.

    A Sovereign Nation

    Let us turn now to the vexed question of sovereignty, or domestic jurisdiction, not simply policing borders, but the internal assertion of national protectionism. Brexit, at one level, is no different from the Boston Tea Party, a nationalist assertion, insisting enough is enough, particularly if a foreign power is draining, not contributing to, the well-being of the local population.

    The protection of small and local business is crucial, even ‘Forthright Grantham grocer’s girl’, Margaret Thatcher, another devotee of Milton Freedman, conceded as much. Now, seemingly inexorably, the local bookstore is giving way to the chain shop, while the bakers, butchers and greengrocers are superseded by the supermarket. European standardisation has facilitated this baleful transition. Communities, being torn apart in Ireland, are built from the bottom up. Small is beautiful. There are as many antiquarian bookstores in the small town of Dorking as there are now in Dublin.

    Theresa May has proceeded with caution, amidst mounting opposition, towards a smooth exit. She and her more moderate cohorts must know that a deal has to be struck in the national interest, now that the path of risk has been chosen. Britain being Britain it has, in a cri de coeur, insisted on its rights being respected. It still has values and pride, unlike Ireland, which meekly accepted the role of a vassal state during the Bailout.

    Fintan, this is a difficult but unpalatable truth: the British people may have been right in thinking that there is no future for the EU. Could it be time to consider an Irexit? For just as the medieval Hanseatic League collapsed, so will the EU. A rising fascist triumphalism has already attained power in Hungary, Poland and Italy. It may be time to circle the wagons of democracy and the Rule of Law, for a spell at least.

    If our contemporary Hanseatic league is collapsing, a negotiated departure of our own may have a salutary outcome, giving way to looser affiliations, and a greater degree of national autonomy to protect indigenous populations against the rampages of global capitalism. Perhaps the British have grasped we are facing a gathering storm, and are muddling through. It might of course end in disaster, but their difficulties in many respects compare favourably to our Irish dependence on footloose multinational corporations, and an EU-subsidised agri-food industry.

    Like Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray, whose portrait ages while he is blessed with a seemingly eternal youth, in his account of Brexit, Fintan O’Toole shies away from reflecting on failings in his own land. His book demonizes the assertive neighbour, along the well-trodden path of lachrymose patriots, and ignores what is staring him in the face.

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    [i] Cillian Sherlock, ‘790,000 people living in poverty in Ireland: Social Justice Ireland’, Irish Examiner, December 19th, 2017.

    [ii] Flann O’Brien, The Best of Myles, Dublin, Dalkey Archive Press, 2007.

    [iii] Naomi Klein: The Shock Doctrine, New York, Vintage, 2008.

  • Sic Transit Gloria

    I learned to drive in a field when I was five, from the same grandfather who taught me how to ride a horse and chew tobacco. At age ten, I took my other grandfather’s El Camino out on Highway 1, the longest road in Louisiana, from church camp all the way to vacation bible school. That spiritual summer, compelled by the power of Christ, I think was the first and last time I truly felt the thrill of being behind the wheel. Once legally licensed, I found myself in a few fender benders, reluctantly dealing with mechanical malfunctions often due to my feminine indifference in the face of minute maintenance. I recall nonchalantly applying mascara in my rear view mirror, moving at about 80 miles an hour, when someone shouted from the next lane, Hey Miss, your car’s on fire! And indeed it was.

    Walking to work one morning, right off Rue Royal in New Orleans’ Vieux Carré, I ran into the Chicken Man, a local voodoo practitioner of some repute. Ebony face smiling out from under his ivory cowboy hat, he stopped to ask me how I was doing, and I answered, I could be better. He offered to help, if somebody put a gris-gris on me. I just shook my head, I don’t know Chicken Man, I’m just sick and tired of my grandma’s old Pontiac breakin’ down on me. You got a mojo for that? 

    He brightened, Pretty Lady, I got a mojo for everything. Come by tomorrow and I’ll have it fixed up.   So I did. At the back of his shop, the cool cat sat, in a candle-lit cloud of incense, amongst a hocus-pocus host of saints and skulls. His pink leather palm presented what looked like any other mojo, a little silk sachet, a kind of bouquet garni, containing some pungent mumbo jumbo botanicals tied up with a cord into a necklace.  I wrinkled my nose, before I caught myself and inquired, with all due respect, Do I have to wear it around my neck all the time or put it under my pillow every night? 

    He shook his head, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth, before suggesting, It‘d be more powerful dangling on that dashboard of yours. 

    What do I owe you, Chicken Man? 

    Averting his eyes, he answered, What you think its worth.  Suddenly sheepish, I gave him the paltry five bucks I had, saying I’d be back with more once the mojo started working, and a week later, I was.

    How’s that old black magic treating you, Gallery Girl?  He knew I sold sub-Saharan sculptures down on the corner and Royal Academy equestrian oil paintings further up the street on Saturdays.

    Well Chicken Man, it’s like this. Wednesday, I was driving up St. Charles on my way to meet a couple of acquaintances, for gin and tonics at Fat Harry’s. And right when I ran that yellow light at Napoleon Avenue, somebody else hit me, seeing red. We spun around, and took out a fire hydrant with us, exploded up like we struck oil, or something. The car is totalled. I just got an insurance check in the mail for thousands of dollars. So I don’t know, you tell me?  He slapped the counter, disgorging a baritone chuckle and said, not without some pride, Yeah, that voodoo is a funny thing, ain’t it? Now that car of yours ain’t gonna break down on you no more.

    Soon I met a Saudi prince who was training in Texas as a NASA astronaut. Before going up in the space shuttle, he spent a weekend in the Big Easy and at a party, took a shine to me. He flew me to Houston and I headed straight for the hotel spa. Four hairy Germans I’d seen on MTV, joined me in the jacuzzi, who turned out to be a band called The Scorpions. They were playing that night. After a massage I met the boys from Deep Purple, by the pool. They invited me on a tour of Southfork Ranch, with the promise of a jigger with JR Ewing on the set of the TV show, Dallas. Alas, I declined, more inclined to stay with my sovereign space cadet, and with no prior training I crash landed the shuttle simulator at Johnson Space Center during something they referred to as, The Hawaiian Scenario.

    Back home, I began to receive boxes by UPS, laden with hand-beaded veils, silk caftans and silver coffee sets, directly from the Arabian Peninsula. The most intriguing object arrived in a velvet presentation case bigger than a shoe box. Nestled within was an extravagant necklace rendered in 24 karat gold, depicting the space shuttle flying over the royal palace at Riyadh, flanked by palm trees and crossed swords, crest of the House of Saud. The Canadian jeweller I worked for weighed the necklace, matching earrings, ring and armful of bracelets, made his calculations, and counted the cash into my hot little hand. He snickered, imitating my Saudi suitor, Desert Flower, sell my love gift to buy a Toyota.

    True, the the transaction afforded a sporty new Japanese import which I drove cross-country to my new home in Haight-Ashbury. There’s an old song about leaving your heart in San Francisco, well that’s where I left my last car. After you go over the Golden Gate Bridge a few times the parking tickets start to slow you down. It was the wild west, and I went to work at Wells Fargo Bank. The South was my stage and the powers-that-be ponied up for a Mustang convertible from which I coached my mostly male confederates to deposit fat checks.

    I left California’s colourful Victorian hilltop houses for Hong Kong’s Victoria Peak, where an outdoor escalator, snaking 800 meters through equatorial territory, exported 80,000 expats in our power suits from well feathered nests, down to towers full of tycoons in the harbour. One day during a typhoon, gliding in gleaming Gucci shoes, I slip on the slippery slope. I flip and finally flop face down. The Prada purse spills open my personal life. My new Nokia cracks and the briefcase breaches the confidentiality agreement upon which my financial future relies. Across the ground I crawl on Armani clad knees to gather a promising career’s required gear. Nearby, Cantonese neighbours watch the other gweilo, (ghost people, foreign devils) march over me with ruthless efficiency, toward their next promotion. When I shuffle in to my office like a wet cat, the Managing Director bellows, Pack your bags, Moneypenny, you’ve been reassigned to Mumbai! 

    My boss at the Bombay Stock Exchange called me the « Secret Weapon », once I commissioned thirty custom-made subcontinental saris. On a tour of the Taj Mahal in an Indian congressman’s propaganda plastered car, we were mobbed by a crowd mistaking me for Sonya Ghandi. She was 20 years my senior and from Lusiana, Italy not Louisiana, USA but how to say that in Hindi? Traffic outside the Taj Hotel was terrifying, with women wretched from profound poverty pressing naked brown babies against tinted windows hoping for a hand out. I went for my wallet, and perhaps to protect me, the chauffeur, from Chennai, activated the child safety lock. If he hit a local, company protocol dictated we speed to Sahar airport to take the first flight exiting Indian airspace. When I did that, the plane set down in the Land of the Rising Sun.

    Taxi drivers in Tokyo wore pristine white gloves. So did subway staff who pushed people, politely sealing them like sardines inside trains, avoiding delay. They bowed deeply during departure, except in the event of a suicide. Seppuku on the tracks is second only to finishing yourself off in Mount Fuji’s forest. On 9/11, I watched a Japanese TV presenter fly two paper planes between his thumb and index fingers in to a tiny origami model of the Twin Towers. Turning off the television, I crumpled my job contract for a fledgling hedge fund. The entire hiring team in New York had died.

    I ride the Red Line from Tallaght to town and something about the announcement Next Stop- Hospital makes me uneasy. It was Monday morning, when I was last on the LUAS, Gaelic for Speed. A gargantuan guy fell asleep, his head heavy on my shoulder, tinny tunes belching from his ear-buds. A teen turned abruptly, his backpack exfoliating my face. I felt faint and rose rapidly toward the doors. Scurrying ahead was a small Muslim in a tightly tied violet headscarf, set on getting out, when without warning, she collapsed into my arms. The scrum scattered, leaving us like lepers in a circle of stares. Uncaring, the train resumed its route to Smithfield, while the corolla of fair freckled souls muttered advice at me. When the doors slid open, I locked her armpits in the crook of my arguably larger limbs, and dragged her to the wet sidewalk. Asking her name, I examined her pupils for dilation. Finding a phone in her plethora of packages I wondered if ABDUL was her husband. Sweating, tears tumbled down her dampening cheeks. Pedestrians paused to diagnose diabetes or epilepsy, and someone called an ambulance as she stammered, I’m pregnant. Her fine boned brown fingers fluttered in mine until the Fire Brigade arrived.

    Before anyone asked, I blurted out, This is Annie, she’s 24, 14 weeks pregnant and she hasn’t eaten today. She’s a social worker for people with disabilities. The medics nodded, like bored horses, installing her inside the ambulance. The doors thumped shut and it sped away, along with that part of me that wanted to take care of her and her baby for the rest of their lives. I could have been a grandmother by now, but I forgot to have kids. Standing there in the wind, I worried about her, and then about me, before closing my coat. Lighting a cigarette, I quickly cut across the square.

    I’m a little uneasy, loitering at bus stops. Secretly, I become that seven-year-old that was nearly snatched by a creep who coaxed me into his Cadillac while waiting for the school bus. With local law enforcement’s « Stranger Danger » lecture fresh in my head, I fled just like Officer Friendly said. I fled as far as I could go on little legs made of marshmallow. Now I’m not bolder but older and yawning under a Dublin donut shop’s awning advertising, Aungier Danger. In relentless rain I rearrange my mane, bonding with a distinguished blonde delighted I’m from across the pond. The boisterous bus whisks us to Wicklow. It’s full of familiar faces further back, but we flock together up front.

    As the miles go by, my mobile Mona Lisa smiles, slipping off shoes, distracted, detaching clip-on earrings, the way women do on long bus rides. We fuss about budgets, discuss what’s distressing, and she’s …undressing. She fidgets a bit with her scarf, her wig, all her self-possessed feminine grace going whirligig, in to a big bag between her feet, like a grinning sheela-na-gig. Her prominent profile petrifies when she presses the pink plastic button to signal her stop, uttering huskily over the clitter clatter in the dusky half light, This is me, and bolts off the bus. Clearly, a chrysalis doesn’t need a Chrysler, because as if by sorcery, only a lone man can be seen in the tail lights, marching on the motorway. I watch through the window, as he grows smaller in the gathering gloom, then look back at the button, but I don’t dare press it. Lunging in the lurching double-decker, I hang on tight to tell the driver in a hoarse whisper, This isn’t me. Briefly he beams, then turns to stare straight ahead, his two shafts of light searching the night. His foot finds the metal gas pedal and we careen down the dark tarmac to a faster moving future.

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  • Numb

    Dublin, October 1992.

    Well he hugged me and he said that it was time for a change. We need to get closer to nature, to believe in hope and he started saying things about the harvest and…

    Where was he this time?

    South Africa. It seems that he spent an afternoon in Mandela’s farm and probably they chatted about agriculture.

    Brainwashed by Mandela.

    Jaysus, he couldn’t stop talking about him, about his wisdom, his efforts, his fucking antelopes.

    Tell me honestly, does he want to write stuff about Africa? Fela Kuti style?

    No, thank god he didn’t mention it. He just said something about the real nature of sounds but I dropped the conversation.

    I like Afro stuff.

    Shut up Clayton.

    And, funny thing, Mandela gave him vanilla seeds as a symbol of universal peace.

    Doesn’t it grow in places like Madagascar?

    Not in Killiney for sure. But you know Paulie? He bought a glasshouse.

    So compulsive.

    Well, he showed me a machine that can reproduce a microclimate with a constant humidity of 95%. But really, he was talking too much.

    I think I know what you mean.

    Anyway, there is a good thing about that. He wrote some commandments to let vanilla grow properly.

    Really?

    It’s a list of things that you don’t have to do. Like a negative mantra. Things like don’t whisper, don’t talk, don’t run if you can walk or don’t grab, don’t clutch, don’t hope for too much. He put a blackboard on the glasshouse wall and he wrote commandments down. Seriously. And he insisted that I read and repeat them before entering the glasshouse. It was 37 degrees, no oxygen inside and Paulie kept talking about Mandela and I had an idea for a song.

    Whoo!

    Yeah, It came out quickly. It’s me repeating things that you don’t have to do in the same key. Simple as that. I want to call it Numb.

    Like I feel numb.

    Shut up Clayton!

    But Paulie doesn’t have to sing. He would sing it too much and he would ruin everything.

    Do you think he will agree?

    I wrote some vocals for him to sing in falsetto on the chorus.

    Hmmm.

    Yes, I know. Probably we’ll have to create a mystical explanation for it. Something about, I don’t know, the voice of angels or shit like that.

    I think we need Mandela to convince him.

    Well, do you remember when he wanted to shoot a video on the top of the Column of Victory in Berlin and they told him that it wasn’t possible and he started shouting and crying and he wanted to talk with Helmut Kohl?

    Yes.

    Well, Helmut Kohl called back. He said he is sorry, we can make the video. I was thinking about telling him the good news and maybe…

    We have to find Mandela’s phone number.

    You are probably right .

    Thank to the effort and the intercession of Nelson Mandela, the song Numb was released as a single in June, 1993.

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  • Kaleida’s Vesper Wood on her First Solo Album ‘Instar’

    C.V.: Your album is entitled ‘Instar’, meaning ‘a phase between two periods of moulting’, which might indicate that you are at a vulnerable stage in your personal life. Can you explain a little about this?

    C.W.: I chose the title less to mean vulnerable, and more to indicate growth and transformation…and the process of presenting myself as a solo artist … shedding an old skin … celebrating eternal change… Actually I first came across the word in a Rebecca Solnit book called A Field Guide to Getting Lost. She wrote: ‘Instar describes something both celestial and ingrained, something heavenly and disastrous, and perhaps change is like that, a buried star, oscillating between near and far.’[i]

    Instar album cover – photo by Marisa Marulli, album artwork design by Haris Fazlani.

    You enjoyed global success as one part of electro-pop duo Kaleida. Does this solo album project indicate that you are taking a separate path, or will your collaboration with Cicely Goulder continue?

    It will continue! We’re working on another album at the moment.

    How has it been to be a female duo in a business that tends to be male-dominated?

    Sometimes frustrating (we frequently get asked what our producer’s name is, where is HE based etc.) but we have been pretty successful in creating a protective environment for ourselves by sticking together and maintaining creative control over everything we put out. Sometimes this means the process takes longer and we have to learn along the way, but we have avoided being ‘shaped’ by a male producer, or really by any men in the industry. We’ve put together a really supportive team around us too, of both men and women, who respect us for the quality of our work.

    During that period which gig did you enjoy the most?

    Probably opening for Alt-J in Prague. It was a beautiful evening, sun-set, and the Czech love to dance, no inhibtions…a great, open-hearted crowd.

    How would you distinguish the Instar sound from Kaleida’s?

    It’s more stripped back, less electronic, more organic, raw. I kept things pretty close to the demo’s as I wanted the tracks to retain an intimate, un-refined, transparent feel.

    Growing up what kind of music did you listen to, and how has that informed your song-writing career?

    Lots of church choral music, as I was in the church choir in quite a traditional church. Then I had a phase of being obsessed with old Appalachian ballads, the kinds that were discovered buried deep within the mountain communities, that had hardly changed since the 1600’s and 1700’s when they were brought over from the British Isles. Old, medieval sounding music. After that I had a long long love affair with Bjork, The Knife, Scandinavian electronic music … still do I guess!

    Are you also influenced by poets and other writers in your choice of themes or lyrics?

    Yes, I get influenced by stories, identities, atmospheres I read about in novels or even in the news. One of the tracks on Instar, Carson, was inspired by Carson McCullers, who wrote the Heart is a Lonely Hunter. That book had a lonely, southern world that really got under my skin, having grown up partially in Kentucky. It has a sadness to it, and of course an outsider appeal, that resonated.

    Photo for single ‘descend’- by Linda Mason, single artwork design by Haris Fazlani.

    What advice would you offer to anyone who aspires to a career in music?

    Be recklessly driven and passionate about making music, and just keep going at all costs.

    You have enjoyed a parallel career in the environmental field. Has an elevated awareness of the natural world exercised a creative influence on you?

    I’m sure in some ways. Sometimes I think my link to the environment is more emotional than anything – a feeling for the beauty of it and the painful knowledge that we are destroying it so bluntly.

    To what extent is your art political?

    I’m not a very political person, but I do get pretty emotional about women’s rights, and what we’re doing to the environment. Sometimes these ideas trickle into the tracks. I battled a lot with my reproductive health in the last few years, and I had a lot of anger about the lack of awareness of women’s health issues in our society, which I was perceiving as symptomatic of our lack of equality. I think little boys should be raised to understand and respect women’s bodies, as should women of course – there is a whole miraculous but delicate and time-bound system of procreation going on in our bodies, and people should speak up more about honoring it. I’d like to see men support women more on their biology, instead of being afraid of it, or ignoring it…I encountered a lot of that along the way anyway. You’ll find a lot of my feelings about it in Instar…

    Where do you see yourself in ten years?

    A couple of albums down, several tours in, living between a city and the wilderness (the dream) with a loving family!

    Do you think you will ever make it over to Ireland to play a gig?!

    I would love to!! One day.

    www.vesper-wood.com
    Photo by Imani Givertz.

    [i] Rebecca Solnit, A Field Guide to Getting Lost, New York, Penguin, p.83

  • Double Take

    In 1973, my first time here,
    I’d stood in wonder with my head strained back
    As dizzily I’d tried to see how high
    The buildings had to reach to scrape the sky,
    Then lowered my gaze just like a steeplejack,
    Who staring straight ahead finds nothing sheer.

    Instead now I’m a resident who knows
    To cross Manhattan’s gridded streets it’s best
    When lights are red to zig and when they’re white
    To zag – a kind of crow’s rectangle flight,
    Combining north or south with east or west,
    Allowing chance to lead me by the nose.

    And yet my sights too low do I neglect
    The joys I’m underlooking as I pass?
    Careering too determined and hard-nosed,
    I miss those older buildings juxtaposed,
    With superstructures shaped in steel and glass,
    Where classical and modern intersect;

    Or how the scrapers taper, tilt or lean,
    To strike us with new beautiful contours;
    How topmost floors designed to counteract
    Excessive symmetry are stacked,
    And houses show surprise entablatures –
    So much unless we look remains unseen.

    On top of one apartment block my eye
    Picks out what seems at first some weeds grown wild,
    But they’re well-watered leaves of terrace trees
    Seen peeping over penthouse balconies –
    The rooftop plants you’d tended as a child,
    Still waste their green on earthbound passers-by.

    I can’t be too unworldly or withdraw –
    I live my lower days here down-to earth,
    Look horizontally for safety’s sake –
    But suddenly a higher double take
    Delights still in my love’s New York rebirth.
    I’m staring heavenward again in awe.

    Micheal O’Siadhail is the author of sixteen volumes of poetry. His latest book-length poem The Five Quintets was previously reviewed by Frank Armstrong for Cassandra Voices.

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