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keeping summer alive in Cork

| Life in a cultural petri dish | June 8, 2011

cork city festivals

Coming down to earth after producing and managing a festival or cultural event is always a strange feeling. Time slows down and opens up to the rest of your life. Those all consuming days of preparation and dealing with bureaucracy just melt away and leave space for your mind to wander and your body breath deeper.

The June bank holiday was such a weekend and is always the busiest of our summer. We were up to our eyes in Cork with events on Saturday at the Ocean to City race and Cork X Southwest music festival in Liss Ard and our annual Mad Pride Ireland family fun day on Sunday in Fitzgeralds Park. The weekend was beautiful and I ended up coming out of it looking healthier than I went into it – amazing what outdoor work can do for you. Beats the computer anytime.

So now what? Back to the computer, back to the stress of running a music venue which always gets harder to programme as we head into July as Cork is one of those places that empties out – it’s a university city – from the end of June to September. The city hibernates during the high days of summer with venues, restaurants, galleries, nightclubs and bars battening down the hatches, saving the pennies and hoping that they can stay afloat by making a few quid out of the pitiful numbers of tourists that stop here on their way to Kerry or elsewhere. Its three months of hardship until the students are back and the International Cork Folk Festival kicks it all off again.  

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New Irish Poetry from Cork

| Short fiction and poetry | June 7, 2011

new poetry

Passion

She’s a kleptomaniac,
he’s a pyromaniac,
she stole his heart
and he set her world on fire.

Puzzle monkey

Puzzle monkey shines amongst the dullest crowds, whines when he can’t solve a problem and dines upon maggots, spiders and birds eggs.

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Close encounters

| Short fiction and poetry | June 6, 2011

winter landscape

Donnie was told to be outta bed at 5.30 a.m sharp, he wasn’t. “That’s why”, was his father’s response, Donnie had questioned the slap across the back of the head. The both of them were headed for Berkley Forestry Plantation. “I’m not spending seventy five bucks on a damn Christmas tree” his father whined. You can guess what Donnie asked. They hit the road an hour late, this didn’t explain Ralph’s mood though. He never did like his son, not when he was conceived, born, or even when he won that trophy for yodeling.

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Campaign Launch: Campaign for the Old City Arts Building- take back the city!

| Culture and politics | June 3, 2011

City Arts building Dublin

Saturday June 11th, 6pm at Seomra Spraoi.Campaign launch with talks by campaign members and Sandy Fitzgerald, former director of Dublin City Arts. Followed by Food and Party. €3 suggested donation from 10pm

Join us on June 11th for the launch of the Campaign for the Old City Arts Building (COCAB). Our aim is to take back the Old City Arts building, 23-25 Mosse St (near Tara dart station) which has been abandoned for nearly a decade and is now part of the National Assets Management Agency (NAMA). We want the building to be opened up for use as an educational and cultural space, managed collectively by anyone who wants to take part, independent of private or state institutions. We also want to broaden this by demanding that the NAMA legislation be changed so that all disused NAMA buildings can be used by the citizens for social and cultural projects, social housing or (in the case of undeveloped land) community gardens.

It is clear that the politics of ‘elected representatives’ has completely failed in the context of the crisis- only people power and direct action can bring real change.NAMA, which is the largest property owner in Europe, has been a key part of the state’s strategy for managing the crisis, a strategy which has unashamedly prioritized the financial system and property speculators above all else.
The crisis is also being used as a pre-text for destroying public services. Any public service that promotes equality has been attacked with increasing intensity over the last two years. Sectors such as the university and community development have seen their funding cut, and at the same time are being strangled by bureaucratic control. The message is clear- the state only values narrowly defined economic activity, in other words, it only values what investors value.With unbelievable cynicism we are told that the state simply does not have the resources to fund public services- that equality is a luxury we can’t afford. Yet the state’s lack of resources is a direct result of pumping our collective wealth into the bailout of the banks, the speculators and the financial system. The irrationality of this is revealed when we consider that while the state claims to have no money for public services it has effectively bought an empire of empty buildings. That is one resource the state does have.

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The Fisher-man

| Culture and politics | June 2, 2011

fisherman drawing

What is a fisherman? A Question of Skill

Noun:
1. A person who fishes, whether for profit or for pleasure

Fishing as a livelihood was long moribund in the village where I grew up but I always felt that something resonated in the broken wooden lobster pots and discarded nets that had once trapped fish. In the pub pictures of fishermen still hang on the wall. The photos are yellow with age and show strong looking men in the village heyday of the 1950s.

There are only a few men left with boats, bringing tourists out for chartered fishing and visits to the islands. About ten years ago I visited Killybegs, in Donegal, the largest fishing port in Ireland. I was horrified by the size of the boats and the stench of the fish from the factory. There was not a single fish shop from which to buy fresh fish.
The cultural archetype I had absorbed as a child was a strong one. It reflected a certain understanding of what it was to be a fisherman. The representation I had been afforded told of men who were brave and skilful. Fishing for these men was somehow a ‘way of life’. The modern, commercial fisherman whom I came across in Killybegs did not conform to this ideal . At the helm of a 120 foot trawler he seemed distanced from his activity; in the control tower he doesn’t feel the sea or the wind and his eyes attend to the monitors rather than the world around him. The intensity with which he extracts fish from the oceans is destructive. It is not a skilful activity, instrumental of an industry which has become so rationalised that many fishermen are surplus to requirements.

This idealised opposition between the cultural fisherman and the economic fisherman has a long history. In 1653 Isaak Walton’s The Compleat Angler was published with the telling subtitle The Contemplative’s Man’s Recreation. John Buchan wrote in the introduction to the 1901 edition: ‘the angler is the man who sees nature through the glass of culture, the townsman and the gentleman’, not just a sportsman but one ‘who loves the country with a more intimate affection.’ The book was not just a practical handbook for anglers it was the defence of an ideal of England . This ideal centred upon a vision of tranquillity and order; the life of contemplation over the life of action. Fishing was regarded as the epitome of this life. A pursuit suited to the quietude, as Walton writes in Chapter 1, of Clergymen who, following the example of the apostles, embraced the ‘art’ of angling. For Walton fishing offered an expression of a particular ethic, a ‘way of life’.

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summer madness is just beginning

| Life in a cultural petri dish | June 1, 2011

burundi drummers

Funny how life has a habit of throwing you tonnes of work in a short period of time; especially when you’re in the business of producing events. The summer is always lunacy.
From May through to August, my time is just chewed and spat out at an alarming rate with no days off for a proper hangover. Come the end of summer I’ll be back obsessing about SEO, PHP, HTML, page rank, page speed, search queries and crawler errors, etc on mutantspace.com, working on our next DIY festival, The Trash Culture Revue, and worrying whether the music venue I run will break even or break me and the owner of the place. It’s hard out there now, scratching for a living in a black recession, there is no slack to cut, no space to turn, no place to hide.

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