we call it the site
where mounds of granite bedrock lie
engulfed by grasses, weeds and moss
these are the ruins of economic collapse
the undeveloped edges
of a landscape
lying at the forgotten abyss of progress
colonial
capitalist
enclosures.
On a bright winter’s day, grasses shrubbery and
dandelions glisten and glow, reclaiming space
through gaps in the fencing. Neighbours’ cats
can be seen escaping into the void basking in
their own urban wilderness. Past memories of my
own childhood mingle with a sense of hope into
the future.
Beneath the surface are layers of waste, labour,
weathered ground, soil, microorganisms, fossils,
stories, memories and dreams all encapsulated
in deep geological time.
Peculiar constellations forge a kinship, living
beings emerge, entangled futures make themselves
evident.
Ghosts linger here amongst the wasteland,
we are not alone.
A flock of starlings burst through tall
grasses, as my foot plunges into unstable
grounds. They circle overhead like particles
suspended in light, dark and brilliant all at
once.
I follow drawn in a trance ,
,
,
,
,
,
deeper into void.
Moving away from the site’s boundaries a
strange stillness pervails. Beautiful yet
eerie, it feels almost sacred. Here, in
the silence, I am lost, adrift, transcending
through otherworlds.
My eyes squint, a glaring light blurs my
vision. This is an ancient light, a cosmic
celestial fire, reaching out for billions
of years. Imprinting itself on my retina.
As my eyes dilate, becoming accustomed to
their surroundings, visions begin emerging
through the smoky fog of the Samhain night.
wild flames dance before me
ancestral memory transformed
into the present
ancestral memory transformed
into the present
is gaire an dá shaol dá chéile
the veil between the otherworld is close
iad seo Na hÁiteanna Caol
these are The Thin Places
succumb to the supernatural world.
here ghosts linger -
whisper
attune to that which
secretly speaks
Shifting through debris and ash remnants left
in the pit of the fire, an caithnín3 comes
to mind, a spark of light,
a speck of dust
a subatomic particle
a shard of broken glass
a grain of soil
a burnt branch
a drop of rain
a tuft of fur,
and I thought of why I may be so attracted to
these places in their lonely, chaotic,
contaminated, ever - changing states, because
these spaces speak to something other, often
ineffable and beyond. They act as thresholds
that position themselves between utopian
futures that have failed to come and dystopian
realities that we are already living in. The
portals they conjure offer alternative ways of
reimagining liveable futures. In our isolated
state, they remind us we are not solitary
individuals, we as individuals are material
things, each an ecosystem slowly returning to
the soil from which we came, disintegrating
into cosmic dust.
are we returning to |
Videos, Images & GIFs :
recorded and collected on site
between 2021 - 2025
by Grace O’Leary
Super 8mm
Polaroid 400
35mm Black & White analouge.
Sony Ericson slide phone
VHS Footage
Flatbed Scans of found artefacts
Youtube:
Jamison, Michael. “Best tiger roar ever !”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DzXVMjsZloE
Bibliography:
1. Tsing, Lowenhaupt Anna. “The Mushroom at the end of the world.
On the Possibility of Life in Capitalist Ruins.”
“Contamination as Collaboration.” 27. “Ruins” 205.
2. Le Guin K. Ursula. “Utopyin, Utopiyan” April 2015. Blog.
https://www.ursulakleguin.com/blog/97-utopiyin-utopiyang
3. Magan, Manchan. The Irish Times. “A magical vision is Hidden -
in the Irish Language - we need to rediscover it.” July 2018. Online.
https://www.irishtimes.com/culture/heritage/a-magical-vision-is-hidden-in-the-irish-language-we-need-to-rediscover-it-1.3558112