My Place
I will not tell you where it is.
I may show you, if I feel a tug,
a connection, if I can tell
you are one of us
who find it ours.
You will not find it otherwise.
Words: Elaine McKeough. Image: JesseJames
My Place
I will not tell you where it is.
I may show you, if I feel a tug,
a connection, if I can tell
you are one of us
who find it ours.
You will not find it otherwise.
Words: Elaine McKeough. Image: JesseJames
elsewhere
in the dream talk
the tang of salt
Contemporary Haiku inspired by Inis Oirr from Anton Kinsella, County Cork. Anton’s Haiku will be weaving their way into the pages of the Inisheer Zibaldone.
A man I know once met a man from Baile an Chaisleán in Tigh Ned’s, who told him that whenever he looked out of his kitchen window of an evening after being in the pub he would see a herd of elephants charging at him down the raveen. The man I know saw it with his own eyes.
Image: JesseJames. Words: JesseJames.
A woman I know told me a man from Galway she knows told her that the cargo of the Plassey, which was shipwrecked on Inis Oírr in the 1960’s, included ceramic toilet bowls. Many of these were spirited away when the Plassey was grounded on Trá Caorach. A woman I know told me a man from Galway she knows told her that some of the ceramic toilet bowls were used in the dwellings on the island, while others were sold in Galway. We imagine Duchampian porcelain installation pieces might still be found unclaimed in the caves and crevices of the limestone.
“An art that’s not based on looking inevitably becomes repetitious, whereas one that is based on looking finds the world infinitely interesting, and always finds new ways of looking at ourselves.”
Images: JesseJames. Words: David Hockney
The rhythm is jumpin, jump session.
Image: JesseJames. Words: Slim Slam.
JesseJames in conversation with Art Historian Aodhán Rilke. Transcript of the Q&A to follow.
The sense of solitude was immense. I could not see or realise my own body, and I seemed to exist merely in my perception of the waves and of the crying birds, and of the smell of seaweed – JM Sygne, The Aran Islands (1906)
A summer’s day Inis Oírr, long ago.
I live in an average Irish townland. It just happens to be in the middle of Galway Bay.
Image: Man of Aran 2017. Words: Man of Aran 2017.