Moze
Jacobs. Clonakilty, Ireland, June 2003.
To have space is a luxury. At least, that’s what it feels like
when you move from Holland to Ireland (a fourth of the population,
twice the surface area).
Mornings no longer contain a rush of adrenaline, traffic, and grim
passers-by. Just the song thrush, some tractors, grazing horses.
The only gilittering nightlife, close at hand, is the Milky Way and
other assorted. But because there are so few external stimuli, you're
left with a lot of headroom.
Space... for inner projections.
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Even in modern Ireland,
the landscape is littered with old, empty houses. Spaces that seemingly
belong to nobody... decaying quietly, organically... almost beautifully.
Maybe the former inhabitants still linger on, as ghosts, for eyes
that can see (mine can't). Our next-door neighbours passed on a decade
ago, but their plates are still set on the table. Nature is a bonus
and also a curse because it's always trying to intrude on man-made
structures. Maybe that's why so many Irish people surround their newly
built bungalows with such impenetrable materials. Tarmacadam, concrete.
Cropped grass kept in check by the dullest monsters on the planet:
lawnmowers. |
