Super Colonised Irish Syndrome

Originally posted on An Sionnach Fionn:

Ta An Reabhloid Ag Teacht Tá An Réabhlóid Ag Teacht!

In today’s Irish Times newspaper Seaghán Mac an tSionnaigh reviews the latest in a wave of books from a new generation of writers and historians challenging the inferior position of Ireland’s indigenous language, and the conventional narratives which have shaped our understanding of the suppression – and extermination – of those who speak it:

“In The Broken Harp, Identity and Language in Modern Ireland, biologist and author Tomás Mac Síomóin presents the decline of the Irish language as one of the most insidious outcomes of the multi-faceted colonisation of the Irish people from the 16th century through to the present day.

Rather than appealing to the Romantic rhetoric of the failed Gaelic revival period, or to the naive optimism of modern-day “official Gaeldom”, Mac Síomóin presents a convincing case relying on consistent reference to the fates of other postcolonial nations, to modern postcolonial theory from intellectuals such as Albert Memmi, Frantz…

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Originally posted on The Plot:

I love this poem, inspired by a Facebook thread yesterday. If you haven’t been following Cat Conway’s new project Thank You for Swallowing, you really should be. It’s funny, witty, gritty, emotional, and has just the right amount of snark to make you smirk.

And this week, a bonus! Click below the text to hear Allie read her poem!!!

Thank You for Eating My Pussy, After Reading Susan Yount’s You’re Welcome! I Love Swallowing Your Cum! After Reading Bobby Parker’s Thank You For Swallowing My Cum

I tell raccoons on the street, “Hey little bandits, he ate my pussy!” I told the shy feral cats at the end of the block, “Do not be afraid, for he ate my pussy, but it’s totally different, just slang, he’s not going to eat YOU!” I even told my dad but he hit his funnybone on the La-Z-Boy, & then told me…

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Originally posted on swallowthefrog:

frog has a dream

I remember

the dappled shade under the wild fig tree.  A woven hammock is rigged so the hot summer afternoon can be spent in soporific meditation with a dapper pillow propping the hollow of my neck.

The green bower encloses my sense of solitaire and the escape from the daily farm routine.

In this soft blanket nest I dream of a passed ocean journey…

Sea spray high on the foredeck dipping and rising and I am with my children in uninhibited song. For sixteen days we have been furling sail in the equatorial seas, dancing in the squalls and eating endless meals of freshly caught tuna, cooked with the deft hand of only a cook’s imagination.

Alone on an ocean where a lonely high wave of the waters between two continents does bring a longing to put feet on land and to pick flowers. Until the day comes fashioned with the excitement when the…

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Belly round, baby kicking, breasts bursting we visited the hospital on the mainland. Heavy body shuffling round the maternity ward. Options were non existent. No choice, no say.First babies were born in the only hospital with the facilities. Twelve years ago, as today, the hospitals on the Isle of Skye could not safely deliver first babies. We travelled far from home, to labour wards elsewhere.
I did not like my visit. The hospital was big and dirty. It was busy and noisy. I dreamed of a gentle place, a different way. I refused to attend the big city hospital. Someone suggested Dr. Gray’s in Elgin, said it was small and friendly. Yes, I said, that’s the place for me. But they had no accommodation. I tried to find somewhere to stay. I telephoned bed and breakfasts from Nairn to Buckie. Just when all seemed impossible Ramon answered my call. He was the manager of NewBold House at the time. He heard my plea. He opened the door of NewBold to swollen bloated me with a bump the size of a space hopper.
It was late February 2003. Giant snowdrops burst through frost, they lined the avenue, the flowerbeds, the borders. Snowdrops dominated the woods, the corners outside the kitchen, even the tables in the dining hall.
NewBold House was the strangest place I had ever been. It was, and still is, a mansion filled with folk living together in a community. I had never seen a meditation cushion before I arrived there, yet, I became accustomed to venturing to the meditation space at the top of the house. This community showed me, taught me, the art of sitting, breathing love. They were the most generous compassionate family I could ever have wished for.
Ramon and the team at NewBold offered me sanctuary. They fed me, cared for me. When my daughter was eventually born I named her Sarah Snowdrop – and they cared for her too.
As well as Ramon, there was Myrta, James, Jo, Myles, Mirjam all working and living together. Every day they cleaned the house and tended the garden. They made bread. They looked after the guests staying for workshops or retreats. They placed Angel cards on tables, they lit candles. There were notices in the bathrooms asking guests to respect the water angels. The entire mansion was protected by a love and compassion greater than anything I had ever encountered and I loved it. I was safe, I was protected. I was relaxed. And it was into this world I brought my daughter Sarah Snowdrop. I was so very very lucky.
On Saturday, after twelve years, I met Ramon again. Over coffee I told him the impact of his actions on my life. He cried as I said I carried his philosophy of compassion and generosity into my life on the Isle of Skye. I told him I always fed someone when they needed it, or sheltered them, or helped in any way, if I could. Ramon, Myrta, James, Jo and Myles transformed my outlook on life all those years ago. I taught my daughter to always do the kindest thing, no matter how hard. She knows to do no harm, to always show compassion, even when faced with very difficult situations. He cried and we saw his heart fill.
Sarah Snowdrop took Ramon out in the wee boat and paddled him round Findhorn Bay. On Sunday he took her to NewBold House, where her life began. He came home for dinner – and that’s where the new story begins. Ramon has been quietly researching religion, comparative religions and alchemy for 30 years. He has written poems, essays and novels. They are all currently in Spanish or Catalan, but that will change. They are all currently free and available on his website – but that too will change.
For anyone who reads Spanish and who has an interest in alchemy, comparative religion, esoteric spirituality – here’s a gift #compassion

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After everything, there’s the beach….and beautiful wise words

Originally posted on swallowthefrog:

beach comber beach

She went down to the beach today. The tide flowed out to lay bare the North Sea floor and higher up on the firm wet sand, lay the tumbled gems she came to find.
From afar, the woman is a figure in a purple hat and a long coat wearing floppy pink sandals as she bends again and again grubbing and snatching to examine the smooth bits of green and white glass; then perhaps the surprise of a blue chip or two.
She tucks them in her coat pockets and wipes the sand from her fingers. She looks up as a pied puppy makes a mad dash for her, crashes into her legs then charges around her and bullets off again towards his master’s voice. She observes his exhilaration at being a puppy. She bends again; knows her muscles may ache tomorrow.
She is a pickpocket; filching, stealing, raiding the…

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Thrillers With Attitude Literary Smorgasbord: Chapter One


I’m a flavoursome force of nature, according to this –

Originally posted on thrillers with attitude:

For the past six weeks I have been interviewing a variety of flavoursome writers for my Literary Smorgasbord. The Smorgasbord began as a vague idea one Friday evening. By the following Thursday the first interview had been posted and it has rolled from there.

The only thing I decided on from the start was that I wanted to feature a really great mix of writers. So far, I’d say that’s a mission accomplished.  But before moving on to the next set of interviews, I thought I’d have a bit of fun looking back at what has become Chapter One of the Thrillers With Attitude Literary Smorgasbord.

My first guest was poet, Stephen Keeler. I met Stephen when I attended one of his classes here in Ullapool – The Thrill of the Thriller. I don’t think we ever really got to the nub of what that class was…

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