Spring 16

It' been a beautiful season so far. It's a pleasure to see how much things change in this magical garden day-to-day as nature takes it's course.

 This little pussycat has become quite familiar with me now. Still quite a wild one but he is partial to climbing through the window into my office from time to time.

Wisteria showing off all over the place. Such a dramatic plant. 

So so beautiful and smells like bubblegum. 

 Cherry Blossom petals, my favourite. Preferably when they're on the tree but the look equally beautiful when they're drifting through the air in the wind, and on the floor like a carpet.

 Forget-me-not, AKA the cutest little flowers.

This garden is full of segments of one colour blocks, and when one flower comes to the end of it's cycle, something else comes up in it's place.

Requiem for the American Dream

In this staggering and insightful documentary, Noam Chomsky explores corruption in policies and the dismantling of democracy. Built up with decades of research and studies, delivered in this highly accessible and understandable film, we are brought into the mind of one of this century's most influential and thought provoking philosophers.

Watch the trailer

Official Synopsis:

"In his final long-form documentary interview - filmed over four years - Chomsky unpacks the principles that have brought us to the crossroads of historically unprecedented inequality. Tracing a half-century of policies designed to favor the most wealthy at the expense of the majority, Chomsky lays bare the costly debris left in its wake: the evisceration of the American worker, disappearance of the living wage, collapse of the dream of home ownership, skyrocketing higher education costs placing betterment beyond reach or shackling students to suffocating debt, and a loss of solidarity that has left us divided against ourselves."

One can't help but feel more depressed than optimistic after watching, given the evident diligence and persistence of corporate powers driven by greed, prevailing. It seems like a hopeless battle; policies continue to be changed or manipulated to aid the interest of the powerful minority, while the masses suffer.

This film itself gives me optimism, the very fact that we are lucky enough in today's world to share information so easily via the internet. Today, film creation and social media are in my opinion, the two most prominent methods of sharing ideas and knowledge effectively, to the masses. Those who are happily going through life ignorant, or unsympathetic to injustice may stumble upon a thought provoking, sometimes life changing documentary or seminar online, that disturbs what they always understood to be true. We may post something online and spark a conversation that brings in information. More and more we are able to educate ourselves freely, and question what we are taught to be right and wrong.

Chomsky highlights the importance of people coming together and making themselves heard through effort and sacrifice. It all sounds like a lot of work doesn't it? To go up against The Man. It is so much easier to go through life blissfully ignorant... if you're not the oppressed. For the oppressed, where often quality of life is subsequently taken away due to the lack of understanding or empathy from those in control of wealth distribution and power (thus financial distribution to social programs), there is no other choice than to come together and disrupt the silence, to say NO, this isn't right, this needs to change.

Throughout history we have seen over and over again how easy it can be for people to be manipulated and brain washed; common scaremongering tactics, encouraging the oppressed majority to fear one another, to only think about ones self - creating an irrational people who make decisions based on fear or greed. However, we have also seen how other human emotions that are born within us cannot be suppressed. I believe we are generally naturally sympathetic creatures, it feels more comfortable to love than to hate, we are not being true to our natural selves if we live our lives by these negative attitudes. Warped powers try to drive them out because we are easier to control if we are scared. Imagine a world where people notice inequalities for what they really are, and instead of being encouraged to fear and disengage ourselves, we are encouraged to sympathise and engage - this won't do for the powerful minority as it is disruptive - far better for them if we feel as though it is not our problem to deal with, to show selfishness rather than solidarity.

We are so capable of doing wonderful things in our short existence as human beings, let us remember that. We are not stupid, ignorant followers, we are individuals with massive potential. We were not born to fear our neighbours or to ignore the needs of the less privileged. Let's continue to exploit these new ways of being heard to create a better, fairer society - because if we go along with the corporate, privatized, money fuelled society that we're headed toward, which Chomsky quite rightly describes as 'ugly' - in my opinion, it won't be long before the end of the human race. 

Marina Abramovic - Balkan Erotic Epic

 

I stumbled upon this odd but interesting piece by Abramovic via the amazing (and highly recommended) The New Yorker Presents series, I had heard of her previously through her project called The Artist is Present. The New Yorker Presents is, in my opinion, such a successful translation of a magazine to the big screen. It's so diverse, funny and insightful. The viewer is kept engaged because each segment is so different and captivating. Is this the beginning of the end of printed magazines?! Surely not. We won't need to be able to read soon, how frightening!

Anyway, back to this weird and wonderful piece by Marina Abramovic (next bit copied from Youtube):
"According to its creator, the piece Balkan Erotic Epic “is part of the studies about Balkan popular culture, as well as her own use of eroticism. Human beings pretends to become through it, in beings similar to gods. In popular culture -she continues- the woman is married to the Sun, and man with the Moon in order to preserve the secret of creative energy; through eroticism one gets in touch with the indestructible cosmic energy”.

In her research for this work, Abramovic consulted old manuscripts, and analyzed medieval pagan rites, rooted since the Middle Ages in Slavic culture. Then, and thanks to the collaboration of a Serbian film production, she did a casting with common people for these old rituals to be registered in film: “Obscene objects -says the artist- as well as male and female genitalia, have a very important function, linked especially to the rites of nature, as those linked to the fertility of the land and the emergence of rain. Men are not ashamed to show their erect penis or during ejaculation; in the same way that women showed their vagina, their ass, their breasts, and even their blood during menstruation. Western culture vulgarized these facts.”




Are you freaked out? Yeah, me too!

Bride-to-be

Possibly the most exciting day so far this year.. I found my wedding dress! I had done a lot of research prior to this trip, I knew I wanted something specific, and thankfully I found exactly what I'd hoped for.

I found the designer on Pinterest and stalked her deeply until I finally went for my appointment; all of her dresses are custom made so I was almost certain that I could get something beautiful there, I was just a little concerned about my budget, but luckily we were able to find ways of making it cost effective.

I met with the lovely Lucy who strapped me up in all this body shaping gear and put me in the most beautiful gown I have ever set eyes on. I felt like a bride. I had only tried on dresses on one other occasion and hadn't had that feeling. This felt right. 

 I had my beautiful friend/made-of-honour with me, along with my mother of course. It really was a special experience and got me so so excited for the day I actually walk down the aisle to become a Molloy. Can't wait to do the same with this babe before her wedding in 2018. 

 In the boy's homeland earlier on this month. I love being anywhere with him but there's something special about the west coast of Ireland, perhaps it's the spirit of the generations of Molloy's that walked those lands before him that I should thank for him being here at all.

Move on up!

Hush now child, and don't you cry. Your folks might understand you by and by. Move on up towards your destination. You may find from time to time , Complications

Bite your lip and take a trip. Though there may be wet road ahead, You cannot slip, Just move on up and peace you will find, Into the steeple of beautiful people, Where there's only one kind


So hush now child and don't you cry. Your folks might understand you by and by. Just move on up and keep on wishing. Remember your dreams are your only schemes, So keep on pushing Take nothing less - not even second best, And do not obey - you must have your say, You can past the test

Move on up!

 

VIBES

Someone's put a J Dilla beat behind Lauryn Hill & Erykah Badu reading poetry separately, it's a vibey situation. 

 Power in music, power in words. 

Upworthy : Kim Raff

A great article posted on Upworthy this month (click the pic), about Monroe County jail farm, where inmates and abandoned or abused animals build relationships and learn to love again. This really touched me, I think it's such a great idea. I often think about the prison system and it's many flaws... I don't believe enough is done generally to rehabilitate inmates - often they come out feeling even less a part of society and even further disconnected from humanity. This concept not only helps those animals have a better quality of life, it also helps build a sense of community within these offenders and gives them a purpose, something to contribute to their self worth. A beautiful example of how love can heal.  

 

Credit: http://www.upworthy.com/

Rise & Shine

As Spring sets in and the days get longer, I can feel my lust for the day coming with more ease each morning. It's not quite light when I first wake up but that beautiful sunrise as I walk Finn around 7:30am is just the beautiful lift one needs for the day. 

 

"Rise and shine. I've always held such fondness for that sweet old phrase. As though we are all little Suns. As though we are all someone's Day." - Beau Taplin 

The Soul is not a Smithy

"For my own part, I had begun having nightmares about the reality of adult life as early as perhaps age seven. I knew, even then, that the dreams involved my father’s life and job and the way he seemed when he returned home from work at the end of the day. His arrival was nearly always between 5:42 and 5:45, and it was usually I who was the first to see him come through the front door. What occurred was almost choreographic in its routine. He came in already turning in order to press the door closed behind him. He removed his hat and topcoat and hung the coat in the foyer closet; he clawed his necktie loose with two fingers, took the green rubber band off of the Dispatch, entered the living room, greeted my brother, and sat down with the newspaper to wait for my mother to bring him a highball. The nightmares themselves always opened with a wide angle view of a number of men at desks in rows in a large, brightly lit room or hall. The desks were arranged in precise rows and columns like the desks of an R. B. Hayes classroom, but these were all more like the large, grey steel desks that the teachers had at the front of the room, and there were many, many more of them, perhaps 100 or more, each occupied by a man in suit and tie. If there were windows I do not remember noticing them. Some of the men were older than others, but they were all obviously adults—people who drove, and applied for insurance coverage, and had highballs while they read the paper before dinner. The nightmare’s room was at least the size of a soccer or flag football field; it was utterly silent and had a large clock on each wall. It was also very bright. In the foyer, turning from the front door while his left hand rose to remove his hat, my father’s eyes appeared lightless and dead, empty of everything we associated with his at-home persona. He was a kind, decent, ordinary looking man. His voice was deeply pitched but not resonant. Softspoken, he had a sense of humor that kept his natural reserve from seeming remote or aloof. Even when my brother and I were small, we were aware that he spent more time with us and took the trouble to show us that we were important to him a good deal more than most fathers of that era did (it was many years before I had any real idea of how our mother felt about him). The foyer was directly off of the living room, where the piano was, and at that time, I often read or played with my trucks outside of kicking range beneath the piano while my brother practiced his Hanons, and I was often the first to register the sound of my father’s key in the front door. It took only four steps and a brief sockslide into the foyer to be able to see him first as he entered on a wave of outside air. I remember the foyer as dim and cold and smelling of the coat closet, the bulk of which was filled with my mother’s different coats and matching gloves. The front door was heavy and difficult to open and close, as if the foyer were pressurized. It had a small, diamond-shaped window in the center, which we moved before I was ever big enough to see out of. He had to put his side into the door somewhat in order to make it close all the way, and I would not see his face until he turned to remove his hat and coat, but I can recall that the angle of his shoulders as he leaned into the door had the same quality as his eyes. I could not convey this quality now and most assuredly couldn’t have then, but I know that it helped inform the nightmares. His face was not at all like this on weekends off. It is in hindsight, now, that I believe the dreams to have been about adult life. At the time, I knew only their terror—much of the difficulty they complained of in getting me to lie down and go to sleep at night was due to these dreams. Nor could it always have been dusk at 5:42, though that is what I recall its being, and the inrush of outside air he brought with him as cold, and scented with burnt leaves and the sad way the street smelled at twilight, when all of the houses became the same color and all of their porch lights came on like bulwarks against something unnamable. His eyes when he turned from the door didn’t scare me, but the feeling was somehow related to being scared. Often I still had a truck in my hand. His hat went on the hatrack, his coat shouldered out of, then the coat was folded over his left arm, the closet opened with his right, the coat transferred to right hand while the third wooden coathanger from the left is again removed with the left hand. There was something about this routine that cast shadows deep down in parts of me I could not access on my own. I knew something of boredom by then, of course—at Hayes, and Riverside, or on Sunday afternoons when there was nothing to do—the fidgety type of childhood boredom that is more like worry than despair. But I do not believe I consciously connected the way my father looked at night with the far different and deeper, soul-level boredom of his job, which I knew was actuarial because in 2nd grade everyone in Mrs. Claymore’s homeroom had had to give a short presentation on what our father’s profession was. I knew that insurance was protection that adults applied for in case of risk, and I knew that it had numbers in it because of the documents that were visible in his briefcase when I got to pop its latches and open it for him, and my brother and I had had the building that housed the insurance company’s HQ and my father’s tiny window in its face pointed out to us by our mother from the car, but the actual specifics of his job were always vague. And remained so for many years. Looking back, I suspect that there was something of a cover-your-eyes and stop-your-ears quality to my lack of curiosity about just what my father had to do all day. I can remember certain exciting narrative tableaux based around the competitive, almost primitive connotations of the word breadwinner, which had been Mrs. Claymore’s blanket term for our fathers’ occupations. But I do not believe I knew or could even imagine, as a child, that for almost 30 years of 51 weeks a year my father sat all day at a metal desk in a silent, fluorescent lit room, reading forms and making calculations and filling out further forms on the results of those calculations, breaking only occasionally to answer his telephone or to meet with other insurance men in other bright, quiet rooms. With only a small and sunless north window that looked out on other small office windows in other tall grey buildings. The nightmares were vivid and powerful, but they were not the kind from which you wake up crying out and then have to try to explain to your mother when she comes what the dream was about so that she could reassure you that there was nothing like what you just dreamed in the real world" A passage from The Soul is not a Smithy by David Foster Wallace

Maysles Brothers meet Marlon Brando

The Maysles brothers and Marlon Brando, this is so good!

"People don't realise that a press item/a news item is money.. and news is hawked in the same way as shoes are, toothpaste and lipstick and hair tonic or anything else"

Nails it.

"Testing his abilities to make a genuine connection in a world of artificial warmth"