Stay Calm with Jake McCabe

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The only word that came to mind when I thought of Jake and his output as an individual, a graphic designer and then his choices as a sharp dressed man was ‘Brash’ or ‘Brazen’. A new set of forward driven and thinking professionals in a small city like Dublin are taking what is ┬ánorm around the ideas cloud and turning them upside down, they are unapologetic [like his cohort and love, Niamh] about their confidence and that could be exactly whats needed to move things along, shake it up, chin up, dress up and make a mark.

Things are stale, bring in the changes. Yet behind the drive is a classic story of a solid family that inspired him to make his own luck, literally with his hands he set the path to meeting up with the making of his future and for now that seems like a career in the visual and the idea, the obstacle and the win. This one will need two teas and two parts.

Part one

Part two

Stay Calm with Sally Foran

We’re dj’s and I have wanted to sit and talk to Sally about being a Dj. There’s a great deal of love for music, She’s incredibly funny and always ready with the fast one-liner so I hoped to try get some serious answers this time to the way it is for women dj’s especially in Dublin, recently, and when she started out. Other topics pop up including our RAGE, seeking therapy and what keeps us going. But as you can imagine theres enough chat for a part two. Many thanks to the guys at Priject arts for having us.

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Down There.

I’m not much at all, I was just a hardshaw headcase that got lucky in the mix of egos and had some ideas. I’m not worthy, that crap 90’s cliche but I wasn’t. I dodged all the side-swipes of drugs and drink and death and found another drug, I was scared so instead I took the first hit of a woman which felt like Heroin and it was never the same again. Long black eyes and scorn. And thats been an nightmare ever since. One time she came to me as an eyeless Kingfisher with those blurred wings and tried to take mine for her own and somehow I woke up.

I don’t sleep, it feels like sleep but I’m convinced its more like when you’re in hospital knocked out. It also occurred to me that I’m not sure what I’m doing whilst in this place which is akin to sleepwalking, strangely that has the word ‘sleep’ in there, But yet I still don’t think it’s proper sleep, It’s like experience goes on with the consciousness, yet of course the knocked out part is still in place. Maybe like being held under something, a bookshelf that fell on you full of books about places, like those lonely planet guides or more severe, a river thats cold and a rock is holding you below down there at your ankle or leg. Then to add to that theres a bridge nearby with a couple on the bridge taking photos with their phones and they just don’t see you. A stranger to them.

Doesn’t everyone have reoccurring dreams? My other starts with a message from a man I don’t know asking me to bring him to the site of a buried person that I don’t know about but yet how come I know they’re there? Why am I connected to this situation. I wake up and it’s only a dream about a dream and it’s actually nothing. But when I think I’ve woken again I’m at a phonebox which are all but gone now and it rings and it’s the Kingfisher again.

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Stalking wasn’t a reality in the fragile nineties but you could do it over the phone, I remember a phone in a shop I worked in and I got fired I think because the list of calls were too strange to be destinations in association with work. Out. If it’s a landline then there was no caller ID and that made stalk-calling easier back in the day. So I slipped into a habit of making these calls that didnt do me any favours in fact they pushed everything away.

Standing at a cinema door waiting for the sadness to turn up anyone that looks like her is a disappointment. And you’re a creep, shifting and growing old at it. Following in your brain and tell tale eyes anyone that resembles the long gone ghost of everything you hoped for.

Following down a side street. Thinking about the end and you never get there, neither of you do.

TBC

Listen to Dublin

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Eamonn MacThomais sitting at a very nice lookin’ bureau.

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There’s a friend who sends me brilliant and beautiful postcards from wherever he goes and I do feel I don’t get to as many places as he does. In a fit of jealousy I decided to do something about this and all I ended up doing is going to a new bookshop and finding two books by the venerable guide Eamonn MacThomais he was all-knowing in his knowledge of an old Dublin that I think we have a longing for and some of his descriptions are spot on so I decided to brush up on my speaking [and reading] skills and then thought why not record it as an audio postcard from Dublin!!!! Here’s the man himself and his book Me Jewel an Darlin Dublin publi-me-cation.

 

Laid Out

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Staying in after hearing noises miles away but thought they came from the next room, when actually they were always in the back of the mind. The street outside on a Tuesday isn’t as busy and every 30 seconds in Tokyo is a long time but they pass. Bicycles and their drivers slow enough to make those meek sounds and carry a brolly at the same time whizz past the lights, the shops, the waiting crossers at traffic lights. They mount and pile up those sounds, like slivers of light through PVC slide doors as the cars in-between the bikes ease around to their own homes. Senses of the movement of a city drifting are in those sounds, each one closer to the end of the night, end of the day.

I’m only a man with fears like you, still feeling amongst everything in a big city like this and yet it had been three days since I had had a proper conversation with anyone, It had been planned all along, the distance yet having a camera to get close all helping to process maybe a years troubles and thoughts of what it’s like to be fearful and to let a bigger than me city calm me in all the noise and noises seemingly from next door.

Get into a taxi with just a location on a map and the driver talks to himself with your phone in his hand and says he knows where, you’ve spoken to someone. Nothing epic but you’re on the wrong side of the city and tired and need to get to bed. The city again winds up as you move and another bicycle sides up at the lights another umbrella and the pattern is mesmerising and beautiful and I’m delirious with this. But the sounds in the next room come back, it’s okay, they’re not actually there just a reminder of your size, how big you think you aren’t. Click. His face dead ahead with a slight smile, it’s not their way to steal your trip or your money, maybe he can’t say it but senses the sounds, knows the lonely and is the help thats just needed, brings you home.

Then you remember the job you have. something in-between a fearful dog and a wizard. Inside the car is immaculate with classic Corolla curtains on the windows all those Japanese taxis have and it’s your personal machine. Black leather and clean lines, chrome and white gloves. No fucking American TV screen to tell you that it’s a must to respect our city because when you land in Japan the respect is there already, He talks to himself again, the taxi driver like all cabbies do, swearing probably at the traffic.

The eyes are dead out the window taking everything.

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Wouldn’t the biggest fight, battle be within? So he sits flying across the wide streets in the rain and does battle, battle inside and out in the world with weapons that are useless like the pile up of those pointless whispers from next door, useless gains in this particular game and then it slows down getting to the side street beside the bed, the small room with a lamp and tea and another quiet finish. Fighting over for another day. ┬áLeaving the car, the door closes itself. These advances say so much about a society unlike crap places that think about the lonely and struggling. He’s a shepard now looking out the window after giving me change, talking again and he’s concerned, looking and concerned for this soldier, lost and tired and battled.

Laid out. The night does its thing without you, takes no notice of your slumber no matter how heroic you think you are or could be and you know it like the black it is. Your feet dream about the taking of the place, tipsy and spent. But speeding away with no resist is the ageing body. Dead, Laid out. Cut and quiet.

 

Her sweeping weather.

Under spell recently, listening to the Gloaming. The song helping. The weather in its change had a thundersound. With that hand of hers a wand lays on the weary back. The man’s worries flood and down the vale, gone, quiet. No one said anything of those days of his.

Carried water for all, not a fucking mention.

Home

Well overdue is the chat on the record between myself and Siobhan Kane from Young Hearts run Free. I’ve wanted this sit down for ages, see what she has for questions and of course everything gets in it seems right from the start, Music is big opener and how can you talk about something so influential and then all the way up to how I feel about Dublin, the city, Herself!!! This can be difficult to explain but I think I did ok. Some other intense bits in there too.
Go make a tea first I would advise.

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That weather i said.

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The taxi pulls up to the dink in mulroy.
We do a U-turn to the front of the house
my one and only saviour is crying still
the leg gets caught in the door.

I have my own key for the future
I know the alarm off by heart
we take the house as a family and
without thought, the kettle clicks.

They changed the lights to white on street
if you ask me, ill say creepy
the drugs and the cars slowed down
once robbed and raced for sound.

It means the place is safer than before
all that matters is the moon
2 bar heater on for twenty
it changes the room.

Stay Calm with Joe Caslin

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When does the dust ever settle? In the case of Joe Caslin it took a while after his epic city centre piece ‘Claddagh Embrace‘ on the end of Georges street and Dame street made it to the front pages, when it unceremoniously began to peel, not because of the weather, well maybe the wind helped from the lungs of god himself, no not that, because it was timely, it had been a long road of discovery and reason and willpower and breakfast rolls, it was near the end, sadly, which it was, because it was the second last of them epic pieces in a huge set of works ‘Our Nations Son’s’ that had found its way to fruition. What can you do next to top that, you sit down and you let it wash over you, listen to the reasons and words of congratulations and formulate that what you achieve means something more than how you feel, it means more. and then think about what to do next, keep going.

The camera and being right.

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Did you know how hard it was?
I’d see fingers, levelled, ready.
Accusing and righteous somehow
Something I could not explain.

At the dinner table i said this
I’m a lone individual that felt it
Loud and with story
Not hidden, not worried on.

There was a history on my mam’s side
They stored it in a drawerful
Mahogany and black
waiting, collect and remember the hue.

The memories he helped
Piled up and made marks.