IN-SHADOW – This impressive short film is a violent criticism against capitalism


in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-6in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-8in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-4in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-1in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-9in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-3in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-7in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-10in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-5in-shadow-a-modern-odyssey-2IN-SHADOW: A Modern Odyssey is an impressive short film, which paints a dark and satirical portrait of our modern society. During 13 minutes, this short film directed by Lubomir Arsov connects symbols and metaphors, attacking with rare power the excesses of capitalism, from the fashion industry to social networks through the world of finance and finance. policy. Embark on a visionary journey through the fragmented subconscious of the West and bravely face the Shadow. From the shadow to the light. Simply magnificent.

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Before You Were Here



It may come as a surprise to some of my readers to learn that as of this writing, a full 95% of the all the world’s Poles now live in Ireland[1], with the remaining five percent living, of course, far to the east in places with hard to pronounce, multiple consonant bearing names like “Manchester” and “Birmingham”. [2] It wasn’t always this way, of course. Prior to the Great Migration, most Poles actually lived in Poland, and in the early 90’s a family moved from there into the neighborhood that I lived in at the time. They had no family there, and no friends save for co-workers of the parents and a few contacts in the church. The parents themselves didn’t speak a great deal of English. They had two children, both boys. The older one, Tomasz, was about three years my junior at fifteen. I called him “Dood”, because he started (or ended) every sentence with “dude”. One of the first things he said to me was “Dood, I am worried about school. I am worried about the Polish jokes, dood.”

“You needn’t be,” I told him. “The Polish jokes will take care of themselves.”

He didn’t get it.

The younger boy, Stosh, was five and spoke English fairly well. He was an almost criminally adorable and completely guileless child who was always asking questions like “Why is the sky blue?” and expecting a real answer. He quickly became a sort of mascot for our street.

One day I was sitting outside watching some of the younger boys play football. Stosh wandered by and decided he wanted to get in on the action, even though he was far too small. The other boys tried to shoo him away, but he just kept smiling and trying to get into the thick of it. At one point the play became very intense. Another boy tripped over Stosh and they both went crashing to the ground. The older boy swore at Stosh, jerked him to his feet by his shirt, and slammed him to the ground. I stood up and gave a verbal warning that included a threat of ultraviolence. I was ready for Stosh to burst into tears, but he just stood up and walked over, and we sat down together.

“Jesus Christ,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“Jesus Christ yes I am,” he replied. “That boy had bad temper. He should get time out.”

I laughed. “Do they have ‘time out’ in Poland?”

“All the time my mom put me in time out. For no reason.”

“Well, that’s what mums do now, I guess.”  I went back to pretending to watch the match, but I was really waiting for Stosh to ask me one of his profound questions, which he did.

“Where were you when you were a little guy?” he said.

“Another town. I only moved here a few months before you.”

He ignored my statement. “I see you in there,” he said, pointing to our front door. “When you come out, you are already a big guy. But where were you when you were little? I am thinking you were a little guy in there and you just stayed inside until you were a big guy and say, ‘Okay, I am big. I can come out now.'”

There is something very touching about the way children try to make sense of the world, especially as it concerns the origins of people other than themselves. As far as they are concerned, they are the centre of the universe. Nothing could have possible existed before they did, therefore all things came into existence along with them, and some just evolve at different rates, or even in secret. It’s not a bad philosophy, as far as those things go. However, not being one to lie to children, as they already have people to do that for them, I tried to explain to Stosh that I had been first a baby, then a little boy like himself and was now, technically, an adult. He was ready with his counter-argument by the time I finished speaking.

“You are way too tall,” he explained patiently, “and your mom is not tall. You couldn’t have come from her.”

“But I was a baby,” I insisted. “A long time ago.”

“But I didn’t get to see you then!” He was getting flustered, and so was I as I was failing to explain a relatively simple concept to a kindergartener.

“This was before you were born, Stosh. Before you were here.

That was when it happened. I could see it in the depths of his eyes, which were brimming with tears. The realisation. The horror. Because of there was such a thing as “before you were here,” that must mean that there is also…

After you’re gone.

The reason that this incident comes to mind, many years later, is that not too long I ago I heard from a friend that Stosh, having long ago become a citizen of his adopted country, is now also a dentist and a husband and a father. (And of course, an adult, although the last time I saw him he was just a little guy. How did it happen?) This happy news got me thinking about the possible advantages he may have had. It’s not easy to be an immigrant anywhere. It’s not easy to be a child, either, although you have the distinct advantage of not knowing that, at least for a while. But being an immigrant and being a child may have an upside. I’ve been both myself, but I don’t think I took full advantage the first go round, so I wrote this to remind myself.

You can ask questions about things that seem obvious to everyone else, instead of pretending to already know the answer. You’ll learn new things everyday if you pay attention. Sometimes you can even go back and look at the same thing twice and learn something new. The same thing goes with people, as they’re constantly changing. Growing up and all. Someone you knew twenty or thirty years ago, who you’ve immortalized in your mind as “this sort of person” or “that sort of person” may have evolved in secret, without your knowledge, into a different sort of person altogether.


[1] According to the old lady down at the Spar.

[2] Ibid.


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Harry Is Late For Tea, As Usual


Harry is late for tea, as usual, but this time he has a valid excuse.

On the trolley, he decided to practice astral projection from outside the safety of his own home for the first time. He relaxed, entering a theta-wave meditative state, directed his consciousness into his astral body, and flowed above his corporeal form, attached to it only by his astral umbilical cord. Harry reasoned that this would be safe, because no one was likely to bother him on the trolley; anyone who paid any attention to him at all would likely surmise that he had “spaced out” or fallen asleep.  When the trolley stopped close to his destination, he would simply re-enter his physical body, disembark, and make his way to the tearoom.

The problem arose when the trolley passed under a power line, which bisected Harry’s astral umbilical cord. The energy flowing through the line had interfered with the cord, effectively severing the damn thing. Harry never expected this to happen as it was not mentioned in any of the arcane Tibetan manuscripts he had so painstakingly collected over the years. The New Age paperbacks he bough at Eason’s also failed to warn of this phenomenon. His reaction was one of blind panic as he watched his earthly body slump forward in its seat below. An old woman on the trolley screamed; a male passenger rushed to give aid and began rolling Harry’s head this way and that, even giving him a wholly unecessary slap across the face.  To make matters worse, Harry had never “free-flown” in his astral form before, and could not keep up with the trolley.

He flew through the sky like a kite cut from it’s string. One minute he saw the clouds, the next, the street traffic below. The trolley was fast getting away. I’ll take a shortcut, he thought. He passed through the walls of a bank, where in the vault he witnessed a young clerk looking craftily over her shoulder as she hid a roll of coins in her vagina.

That is the most outlandish behaviour I have ever observed in my life!” astral Harry shouted as he phased like a ghost out the opposite side of the building.  The girl took no notice.

Back outside, he caught sight of the trolley, but just then something distracted him. He was shocked to see a group of people sitting and talking on the roof of a nearby cathedral. Only they weren’t exactly just people, but rather the astral bodies of people. The seemed genuinely surprised to see him as well and began pointing at him and talking excitedly to one another. One of them, a woman, stood and began waving him over.  Harry hesitated. He didn’t want to lose sight of the trolley and his body, but on the other hand…

It will only take me a moment, he thought.  And I have a view of the whole city from up here. He concentrated and flew up to the rooftop, and landed rather daintily. Not bad for a beginner.

The other astral people, twelve in all, stood to welcome him.

“Er, hello,” said Harry.

“Hello!” said the woman who had waved to him. “Welcome! My name is Sheila.”

“Oh! Sorry,  I’m Harry,” he replied, offering his hand.

Everyone laughed.

Damn fool, he thought.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Sheila said, smiling. “New at this, are you?”

“Er, yes. First time outside the house, I’m afraid. I’ve actually learned from books, so I don’t quite know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, don’t worry. You actually can solidify you spirit body enough to make contact with that of another, but only by mutual consent. Otherwise, you’d have all sorts of immoral behaviour going on, I suspect. Harry…where is your physical body, by the way?”

Harry became flustered. “Well, I was on the trolley, you see, on the way to meet a friend, when I got separated from myself by an overhead power line, and—look, my friend is really a bit of a bore, but he’s the only friend I have and he’s horribly impatient. I really must be going!”

“Wait!” Sheila cried. “This is our once in a decade gathering, where we relate all that we’ve learned to one another in the hopes of forming a society within a society, in order to better the lives of all mankind. We’ve all been students of one master or another and have gathered here from all over the world, as the site this cathedral was built upon is an ancient seat of sacred power. The fact that you’ve apparently taught yourself astral projection is auspicious. The fact that we’ve found one another, even more so! Stay awhile, that we may learn from one another. Afterwards we will safely reunite you with your body and we can go forth to teach others as well!”

Bloody hedge monkeys, he thought as he floated away without a word, because Harry is late for tea, as usual.




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The day that Spain died

Wee Ginger Dug

Can you imagine the outrage and shock if Westminster imported 6000 armed police officers from the rest of the UK in order to prevent the people of Scotland peacefully and democratically exercising their right to determine their own future? Can you imagine those police officers causing hundreds of injuries? That’s exactly what’s going on in Catalonia today. When the response of a state to a demand on the part of some of its citizens for a referendum on self-determination is violence, you’re no longer a democracy.

Today’s the day that Spain died. The concept of Spain as a liberal democracy is dead. This is supposed to be a modern liberal democratic state where the right to freedom of expression and freedom on opinion is sacrosanct. You can’t claim to be a democratic country when police fire rubber bullets at people who are peacefully queueing up to vote. You can’t claim…

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Ledwidge Killed

oct20-2004 Ledwidge Pics


Ledwidge killed

blown to bits

died in a hole

with some other poor twits

bad things happen

when you fight for the Brits

better luck next time,



Francis Ledwidge (19 August 1887—31 July 1917) was an Irish poet from Janeville in Slane, Co. Meath. He began his career as a poet in the rural or pastoral style of the time but is known today primarily as a war poet. Ledwidge was a nationalist, a member of the Irish Volunteers, and a supporter of Home Rule. In spite of this, at the outbreak of World War I, he enlisted with the Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers. This was against the advice of his friend and patron Lord Dunsany (Edward Plunkett), who offered to support him and his writing if he refused to join the war effort. ( Plunkett himself was a Captain in the Fusiliers.) Ledwidge insisted that his enlistment was for the protection of Ireland, though it has been suggested that he was at least partially motivated by having been left for another man by his girlfriend.

During the War, another conflict broke out at home in the form of the 1916 Easter Rising. According to Wikipedia, Ledwidge was “dismayed by the news of the Easter Rising and court-martialed and demoted for overstaying his home leave and being drunk in uniform.”  (Plunkett (Dunsany) himself, being a reserve officer in the Fusiliers, fought against the Irish rebels and was wounded.)

“Ledwidge continued to write during the war years…sending much of his output to Lord Dunsany…as well as family, friends, and literary contacts.”

“On 31 July, 1917, a group from Ledwidge’s battalion…were road-laying in preparation for an assault during the Third Battle of Ypres, near the village of Boezinge, northwest of Ieper (Ypres). While Ledwidge was drinking tea in a mud-hole with his comrades, a shell exploded alongside, killing the poet and five others. A chaplain who knew him, Father Devas, arrived soon after and recorded, “Ledwidge killed, blown to bits.” ”


I’m a bit ashamed to say that before writing this post I had read only two of Ledwidge’s poems, and those a very long time ago. One of them is “Lament for Thomas MacDonagh”, which I highly recommend. (MacDonagh was one of the leaders of the Easter Rising and was executed by the British.)  Here for your perusal is another:


Lament for the Poets: 1916

by Francis Ledwidge


I heard the Poor Old Woman say:

At break of day the fowler came,

And took my blackbirds from their songs

Who loved me well thro’ shame and blame


No more from lovely distances

Their songs shall bless me mile by mile,

Nor to white Ashbourne call me down

To wear my crown another while


With bended flowers the angels mark

For the skylark the place they lie,

From there it’s little family

Shall dip their wings first in the sky.


And when the first surprise of flight

Sweet songs excite, from the far dawn

Shall there come blackbirds loud with love,

Sweet echoes of the singers gone


But in the lovely hush of eve

Weeping I grieve the silent bills”

I heard the Poor Old Woman say

In Derry of the little hills














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Mata Hari’s Head is Missing



Mata Hari’s head is missing

and they’re searching in the streets

looking high and low in Paris

and peeking ‘tween the sheets


Could it have slipped out on it’s own

and booked a ticket on a plane?

Or did it don a cheap disguise

And change it’s name again?


(Though her origins were Dutch

she was Indonesian in her myth

If you see her, please don’t touch

for Mata Hari has the syph.)


Just in case you wonder why

I concern myself with the witch

In a former life, it was I

who shot the sneaking, spying bitch


And though I thought it was the end

when she fell defiant, before me dead

Now I’m cursed to roam the land

In search of Mata Hari’s head.


According to Wikipedia, “Margaretha Geertruida MacLeod (née Zelle) 7 August 1876-15 October 1917) better known by the stage name Mata Hari, was a Dutch exotic dancer and courtesan who was convicted of being a spy for the Germans during World War I and executed by a firing squad in France.”  She denied being a spy until the end, and died rather bravely—refusing a blindfold and blowing a kiss to her executors. After being shot and sinking to her knees, she was then shot again, this time in the head, by an officer who was present.

Her head was embalmed and given to the Museum of Anatomy in Paris. In 2000, it was discovered that her head was missing and remains unaccounted for to this day.







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Flying Art!

Be sure to click on the links in this post to learn more about the collaborative art project “Concerning the Other”.

Scéalta Ealaíne

Paper airplanes by Eoin Mac Lochlainn

I don’t know what is was about aeroplanes but I always had a thing about them. As a boy, I had model aeroplanes hanging from the ceiling of my bedroom.

So maybe that was the reason, when I received my “Concerning the Other” artwork lately, that I printed it out and folded it into a paper jet plane.

Ah, I could think of some good political reasons for making the planes (see previous post) but you know, sometimes you just go with your gut. So, after briefly admiring its shapely, aerodynamic lines, I decided to launch it out the bedroom window and I watched gleefully as it glided gracefully into the garden next door.

Well, that was the last we saw of that one. It was instantly pounced upon by an unenlightened mongrel of no definable breed and mercilessly shredded before I could utter:  Art! It’s Art!

photo by Eoin Mac Lochlainn of paper planes hanging in the Olivier Cornet Gallery, Dublin The…

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