Etc Issue 3

welcome to 003

01. Letter from the Editor 02. Meet the ETC. Team 03. Art by Claire Foyle 04. ‘The Beginning’ by Sarah Fitzgerald 05. ‘Mother of Pearl’ by Sophie O’Connell 07. Speaking with Trees Photoshoot 14. Moth Studios 15. ‘Season of Change’ by Liz Woweries 17. ‘Making Movie Magic - Wicked’s World

of Wonder’ by Eoin O’Brien 19. ‘Pondering’ by Ava Palmer 21. ‘Who Are You?’ by Stani B 23. It Takes a Village to Build an Ugly House: In Conversation with Pebbledash 31. ‘The Importance of the First Day Out Song’ by Leo Troy 33. ‘The Words of a Future Expat’ by Stephen O’Brien 36. Litreacha: A peek into Cork's Queer Poetry

Table of Contents

Editor-in-Chief

Chloe O’Connell

Vice-Editor

Caoímhe Collins

I’m thrilled for everyone to experience this remarkable edition of ETC. Magazine. In my dual roles as Vice-Editor and Chairperson of PopSoc, I’ve witnessed firsthand how ETC. transforms our society into a vibrant creative haven. This issue, “Speaking with Trees,” is a heartfelt invitation to reconnect with nature and to listen to the world around us. A special thank you goes to Chloe, whose visionary leadership as Editor-In-Chief has truly brought the magazine to life this year. And of course, our gratitude to all those who have worked on this issue - writers, models, photographers and more - their indispensable contributions made this issue possible.

Creative Director

Stephen O’Brien

I am the Creative Director of ETC. which entails working on the theme, and ensuring that the magazine captures its essence. To me, ‘Speaking With Trees’ means returning to a previous state, grounding oneself, and internal exploration; poetry is a vital aspect of this.

Designer

Emer Neville

I'm thankful to have been the designer for ETC. Magazine this year. Working on the magazine team has been an incredible experience, and I’m so excited for everyone to see the hard work that has gone into this publication. Chloe has been a phenomenal editor, and I hope that her vision has been brought to life throughout the design of the magazine and that it will keep you turning from one page to the next.

Artwork by Claire Foyle

by Sarah Fitzgerald

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Mother of Pearl

by Sophie O’Connell

When you would just leave the hot thickness of the hazy mirage of air and jump off the boat, it would seem like water had never been so cold before, as it swallowed you whole. Under the water, the small scalloped shells shone as light cascaded down from above and filled the ocean. They were easy to find, and we would fill our nets with as many as we could before racing back to the surface. Our little hearts in our throats as the big, gruff men broke the shells open with ease to release delicate, glowing pearls, and we could breathe again. As much as they were beautiful, it seemed a futile sort of beauty without their shells. They were more splendid when they were in the ocean, where they belonged. But, now they had been plucked from the seabed, from everything they knew, to be threaded into bracelets and necklaces and worn on the foreign, porcelain wrists of little girls. Nobody would remember they belonged to the sea. Never before did a herd of little pearl-diving girls come to have so much in common with the pearl themselves.

When I was first taken from Broome to Beagle Bay, the short journey felt more like an odyssey. With each rumble and hop of the cart’s wheels over the pebbles, I felt desperately and hopelessly further away from home. I even found myself longing for the salty, sticky air by the beach that I had breathed in so much of as we waited for the boats to be loaded up to take us out on our pearl expeditions each morning. The salty taste of my tears was a constant reminder of what life was like before, with not even so much as my clothes to serve as a comforting keepsake. I was given a huge black shirt which my frail, tiny body swam in, treading water until I reached my fate at long last – the mission that would become my home.

I almost didn’t see her as they brought her inside on the first night. The soft, light, naked padding of footsteps along the cool, orange tiles, followed by a light brushing sound – her large black shirt trailing after her. The sniffling child was so young that she hadn’t been able to tie the buttons up herself. I knelt down in front of her, to meet the biggest pair of watering brown eyes I had ever seen, and I gently tucked a coiled strand of black hair behind her ear, to reveal her tear-stained cheeks. I scooped her up into my arms and held her tight. I had only been in Beagle Bay for two months, myself. A wild contrast from the fresh, rolling green hills of Kerry, Australia’s Western landscape was barren, dry and unbearably hot. It took constant perseverance not to tear the habit from my head and splash my face with the nearest water I could find, no matter how holy. There were seven children at the mission when we arrived, and we were treated like angels who had come straight from heaven above. Ireland may as well have been heaven, it felt so far from this place. It seemed these poor babies had never heard a kind word in their lives, and were deeply surprised by our gentle voices. When we met the priests, it became quite clear why. Monstrous men, they seemed to me, though I would never say it. How they thought they were worthy of calling themselves ‘men of God’ escaped me. Their endless lectures on the dangers of ‘half-casts’ if they were to stay with their families, their endless preaching of the ‘Aboriginal problem’ – it made us realise that we had to make a change, and quick.

It was around the time that we opened the school that Elanna arrived. We taught by day, lessons to all the children in the village, no matter how light or dark their skin. We became intertwined with the community and the people of Beagle Bay were enamoured with us – ‘the Irish sisters’. By night, we nursed in the Japanese hospital. They paid European nuns well, and so we could provide for the children, who by this time had grown in number to twenty. I often found ways to leave the hospital early so I could read to Elanna before she fell asleep. She was the first new child to the mission after I had arrived and I felt a responsibility or her, and a deep understanding.

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Under the warm, yellow glow of the candle, she looked like an angel peering down at me. Her soft voice made it sound like she was whispering a song in my ear. Her hands, white as clouds, flicked through pages of books that she had bought herself, but they weren’t from here – they were from her country, Ireland. She saw how I would pour over the pages with pictures of winged women with long, auburn plaits of hair, and one night, watched my face light up and eyes widen as she inched her hair covering back slightly to reveal that she herself had been hiding locks of red silk. I wondered if it pained her to have to cover up such beautiful hair, but decided that she could not be so vain. ....

She read to me day after day in the schoolhouse, sat with me under the trees and plaited my hair, as she would tell me all about Kerry. She had to leave her family too and she didn’t know what to expect until she came here to Beagle Bay-she was a pearl just like me. I told her all about my dives and how I loved the sea.

My mother knew I would, so she named me after it. Elanna means ‘home by the sea’, and the sister told me she wished her name had a meaning like that. Hers was given to her by God, she said, and it was Bernadette. One night, the other girls were sleeping and I crept out to the garden to look at the stars. As I tilted my head all the way back and took in every little twinkling light against the deep-navy blanket of the night, I wondered what the sky looked like from Ireland – if it was brighter or clearer, if the sky was even the same colour. Suddenly, I noticed a muffled, distant sound coming from across the garden in the small town hall building. There were lights on in the windows and the faint sound of violins, drums and guitars edged out of the sides of the window frames. I scurried across the grass and poked my eyes over a windowsill.

Inside, the sisters jumped and skipped around, laughing ferociously and infectiously as they went. Sister Bernadette had abandoned her habit and, hand-in-hand with her sisters, spun and twirled around in blue dresses, with her red hair tied back with white satin ribbon. She had never looked so young to me before, and so happy, joy ignited by the sound of her traditional music. I wondered what mine sounded like. ....

Elanna neared to read within a year. I could tell she was a born storyteller when I first met her, and it had always weighed on me that she would never know where she got it from. Sometimes I would watch her, this little wisp of a thing, scribbling away in her own world, or her nose buried in a storybook, and I would feel like crying, crying for the beautiful little pearl whose shell was cracked to pieces, beyond repair and preservation. However selfish it may sound, I felt as if I had raised her, as if she had been mine to keep, but the accent and the broken English she spoke to me with, and the golden-brown skin that enclosed what I believed was the most precious soul I had ever met, was a constant reminder that she was not mine at all. I was not this pearl’s mother. ....

Sister Bernadette taught me everything. She showed me how people from opposite sides of the world could have everything that mattered in common. She may not have been my mother, but she was everything to me. In all her kindness and softness, she became a protective shell for an abandoned pearl, and she never let me forget who I was. She gave me back what was stolen from me, and so much more – a lifetime more, in fact, with it. ....

All these years later, I sit in Mother of Pearl Church, Beagle Bay, and I can still picture with perfect clarity, the vision of the tiny Aboriginal girl delivered to me in the mission in the middle of the night. Somehow, I still recognise Elanna, as she sits next to me in the pew and we both gaze people at the same stained glass window, the art depicting crashing waves engulfing white scalloped shells and pristine pearls. Each one represented each of the children in the mission. Stolen from their shells. But found again and united in the love and generosity of ‘the Irish sisters’.

This short story was inspired by the stories of Australian Aboriginal people who were displaced between 1824 and 1923 and sent to missions, where Irish nuns were often responsible for their care. Broome and Beagle Bay were real mission locations, and the positive impact that was felt thanks to the charity of the Irish nuns is still honoured there today. The stories of these Aboriginal children who were separated from their families in a devastatingly successful act of ethnic cleansing are ones that sparked the importance of and the need for a rebirth and renewal of Aboriginal culture in Australia, one that is also easy to relate to for us as Irish people.

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Photographer: Moreen Kamdem Kacper Gutkiewicz Models: Nika Kersyte Éadaoin O’Keeffe Katie Sun Adam Tang Liz Woweries Moth Studios Wardrobe: Cara Roseno Makeup:

It’s the 21st of March.

4:17 p.m.

Pretty much at the same time exactly one year ago, we were sitting on the very same bench I am staring at right now. A white painted wooden bench under a leisurely tree, gradually forming a crown of proud leaves.

I can’t quite catch the feeling this sight evokes in me. I feel a slight nausea, but also my heart starts beating very fast.

I look around.

No one’s here.

Although, this is such a beautiful place, especially at this time of year.

Spring starts early these days.

I take a moment and allow myself to get lost in the sight of the already green Persian Ironwood Tree, which embraces the bench with its sprawling limbs. Many tiny red buds are nestled in its branches, gently swaying with the awakening leaves in a soft spring breeze, their colors gleaming in the sunlight, making the whole surroundings glow.

They remind me of the emotions I felt when we shared the beginning of us, growing just like the treetop right here on the bench under the Ironwood.

The feeling in my stomach turns into a subtle tingling, and I swallow a lump in my throat before a tear can find its way out of my eye.

Slowly, I approach the tree.

Reverently, I stroke one of the delicate leaves that has yet to reach its full splendor. As I feel the fine veins of the leaf under my fingertip, I sense a deep connection to this powerful, energyfilled plant, just like the moment of togetherness we shared at this special place.

I take a deep breath and sit down on the bench. The white paint is a few years old, peeling in some places and covered with scribbles.

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I lean back into the bench, pull my legs up, and then rest my head back, looking up. Between the branches, the clouds drift by, and the sun reflects off the blossoms, casting its gently warming rays toward me with a mischievous glint. I close my eyes, listening to the soft rustle of the leaves, the birds chirping in the surrounding trees, and the distant fragments of conversations from strangers.

You have become a stranger to me, too.

But to the Ironwood Tree, you are still as familiar as a year ago.

The tree does not forget.

It didn’t go anywhere, storing everything that happens around it in its centuries-old DNA. Eternal like the roots that branch out endlessly, where no one sees, so lives the memory of you.

The memory of us.

Here, it feels like time has stopped.

I indulge in memories, and it feels heavy. I feel as heavy as the trunk of this tree, which makes me hold on to you.

Lost in thought, I barely notice how silently and almost unnoticed, one of the leaves in front of me gently floats down. I stretch my hand out and catch it. Surprised, I gently rub it between my fingertips. With its fresh growth, it should actually be too strong to be detached by the wind.

I examine the vibrant green of the leaf. I can almost feel how the life force flows from the roots of the ancient tree, up through the trunk, into the branches, and into this small, unremarkable leaf.

I can’t help but smile.

The leaf was strong enough.

Not strong enough to hold on, but strong enough to let go.

4:31 p.m.

Time doesn’t stand still.

It’s spring. A new spring.

The tree awakens to new life. It has not forgotten, but it does not stand still; it grows into a completely new tree, with new blossoms and new leaves.

Soon, in the fall, this unshakable Ironwood Tree will bloom in the most beautiful colors: powerful reds, enchanted purples, and joyful yellows.

And I, I will not hold on to the memories of the withered blossoms. I draw strength from the newly grown possibilities, reaching out in every direction toward the sun.

Manifesting this realization within me, the slight tingling in my stomach turns into a flutter of excitement. I feel light, like the leaf that fell into my hands from the spring breeze.

And with that, I carefully place the leaf in my jacket pocket, turn my back to the bench, and step out under the Persian Ironwood Tree into the sunshine.

One last time, I turn around.

I’ll come back. Next year, on the 21st of March.

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MAKING MOVIE MAGIC: ’S WORLD OF WONDER

BY EOIN O’BRIEN

When Wicked first opened on Broadway in 2003 it was always destined for the big screen. Over the past two decades many attempts had been made at adapting the stage show into a feature film. The creatives involved knew that they needed to get it right, resulting in production continuously being delayed until eventually, in November 2021, the news broke that Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande would be portraying the characters of Elphaba and Glinda. The film was real, it was finally happening. Fan anticipation continued to grow in the three years between the casting announcement and the first movie’s theatrical release. People were nervously excited and optimistic, and thankfully… the movie defied gravity and delivered on the promise made to faithfully adapt the beloved stage show.

While the cast, the songs and the talent displayed on screen are major factors to the movie’s critical and box office success, the real magic has been overlooked by some of the audience. What makes this movie work so well is the creative team’s dedication to practicality. This movie would simply not work as well as it does without the sprawling sets and locations that the actors were able to inhabit and work within.

From the very beginning of the movie the love and care that went into creating this fantastical world is clearly on display for all to see. The opening song ‘No One Mourns The Wicked’ takes place in Munchkinland, and the movie’s production team built this entire village in the English countryside. Houses were erected, with a variety of uniquely shaped thatched roofs. The yellow brick road was placed brick by brick, leading out of the village into the tulip fields that surround the town. A lesser adaptation would have simply used computer generated graphics to create this locale, but the Wicked team went all out. Over 9 million tulips were planted around the set, creating a botanical rainbow that frames the mushroom-like buildings. The aesthetics of the world are established, and from there it only continues to become more impressive.

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The movie primarily takes place at a fictional school: Shiz University. Shiz was brought to life by Nathan Crowley, Wicked’s production designer. The entire front courtyard and surrounding towers were built to ensure that the fictional and magical world had a touch of realism. By building real and practical sets the actors are given the opportunity to fully immerse themselves in the world they are supposed to be inhabiting. The attention to detail is unmatched within the Shiz set, from the large rounded arches, ornate spiral towers and colourful tilework. The Wicked team even created an entire body of water to surround the entryway to the school, allowing them to film the actors in actual sailboats as they arrive at the school. In modern Hollywood this style of filmmaking has long been forgotten, with most studios opting to use new methods such as green screen, or the recently created Volume, to create the world of their stories. By building their sets from the ground up and allowing the actors to inhabit the world of Oz, the Wicked team have reconnected with traditions from the Hollywood of old that have long been neglected.

Other key locations within the movie, such as the Shiz library, Glinda and Elphaba’s dormitory, the Enchanted Forest, and the Emerald City were all crafted with an equal amount of love and care.

For the behemoth musical number ‘Dancing Through Life’ the production team built the rotating bookshelves that you see within the movie. In a behind the scenes featurette director, John Chu talks about how he worked hard to convince the legal and insurance team to allow Jonathan Bailey to be harnessed into the rotating bookshelves so that he could spin around 360 degrees while singing. The Emerald City set where the upbeat musical sequence ‘One Short Day’ takes place includes a plethora of nods and references to the original Emerald City set that was built for The Wizard of Oz in the 1930s.

Hopefully this is a sign for things to come, Wicked: For Good the much anticipated follow up movie will release later this year and it is guaranteed to continue the trend of embracing traditional filmmaking. Fans eagerly await to see how the team brings more locations from the show, such as Elphaba’s hideout Kiama Ko, to life.

Wicked has already won a number of ‘Best Production Design’ awards, most recently at the BAFTA Awards in the UK and it has been nominated in the same category at the upcoming Academy Awards in the US. Hopefully this is a positive sign for the industry going forward. Wicked is a major blockbuster and it has proven that you can embrace practicality and flesh out the world of your movie for the same amount of movie that it would cost to generate everything on a computer screen.

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20

Who are you?

Who are you?

u?

Who are yo

Who are you?

by Stani B

Who are you?

u?

Who are yo

Who are you?

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On a breezy, wintry Sunday afternoon in February, fresh from their photoshoot at St. Luke’s, I sat down for a chat with self-proclaimed banshee cowboy rockers Pebbledash in Henchy’s pub.

Nestled around a corner table with the background hum of chatter and clinking glasses, the vibe is laid-back and warm. Pebbledash formed as a band several years ago but caught my attention when my twin sister Asha joined their ranks as a vocalist last year. Since then the band has taken their sound and aesthetic to new and expansive places, and has turned me to a die-hard, if somewhat biased, fan. Making waves in Cork and beyond, Pebbledash draws from a diverse array of influences from shoegaze, country, sean-nós and noise rock, to create a sonic landscape all their own. Off the back of a successful run of shows in the UK, as well as the release of their debut EP “Four Portraits of the Same Ugly House”, I catch up with the band; frontman and guitarist Fionnbharr Hickey, vocalist Asha Egan McCutcheon, keyboardist and vocalist Cormac Donovan O’Neill, drummer Eoin Schuch and bassist Jack Cashman; for a hearty discussion of life, the universe and Pebbledash.

Louis: One thing I’ve been itching to ask since I’ve known about ye as a band: where did the name Pebbledash come from?

Fionnbharr: I can’t really remember initially, we just needed to come up with a name when we were joining the UCC Battle of the Bands in 2020, but I just thought it was relatable, I suppose.

Asha: Well, it’s the architectural feature where you basically just throw pebbles at the wall and it creates this kind of rough texture. We’ve come to understand it differently over time, and we use the feature of pebbledash as an inspiration. It’s very in line with what we try to do stylistically, the synthesis of the natural and the man-made, and the prioritisation of texture in our sound.

Fionnbharr: I also think that most of our songs are not really about anything extraordinary, so there’s these parallels between the beauty of the mundane and the ordinary, and we want to highlight that.

Louis: Yeah, that makes a lot of sense. It has a really specific vibe and visual element, which ties in with your sort of rough sound and reverence for everyday things. There’s also that classic phrase “throwing everything at the wall to see what sticks”, which is literally how you make pebbledash, as in the wall coating, and also your music. When I think about your sound and all the various influences you pull from, you are bringing so many different things together in a way you wouldn’t expect, and it sounds completely fresh and unique.

Fionnbharr: That’s a cool idea, yeah.

Louis: I also wanted to talk a bit about your approach to lyrics, since I'm a writer and poet myself and lyrics are something I always pay attention to in songs. What are some of your favourite lyrics from songs you’ve written?

Fionnbharr: I like this one from the new song: “Do you plan to daydream as the land crashes over the sea?”, I just love the idea of “planning to daydream” and the absurdity of trying to force creativity and inspiration when it’s just something that should happen naturally. I enjoy the way it’s sung as well, but we haven’t recorded it yet.

Louis: Wow, I love that, it’s a very visual lyric. I’ll keep my ears peeled for when that’s being released!

Asha: Well, one from a song that I wrote which we haven’t started practicing, and I think about a lot is “There are parts of me that don’t fit together / Tectonic plates slide over my liver”. I just love that way of thinking about bodies as places, as geography, and as something that’s ever-changing.

Louis: So you’ve just come back from an incredible run of shows in the UK over the last few weeks, three in London and one in Brighton. Can you talk a bit about what that experience was like for ye?

Fionnbharr: I think it’s the first time in a while we’ve played to a room where not everyone knows who you are.

That was kind of strange, because even if you go to Dublin, some people will be aware of your music even if they don’t know you personally. So I felt there wasn’t the same level of interaction between us and the audience, but of course that’s not a negative thing.

Louis: I think in Cork, we’re so lucky that, even though it’s obviously a small city and scene, it’s so interconnected and devoted. I feel like every gig you go to, everyone there knows someone in the band and the level of response and energy coming from the audience is just at its peak. If you go anywhere else, that magic of being in the home place is just not there.

Cormac: In fairness, the first gig we did in London, in The Social was not unlike doing a gig in Cork really, because so many people we knew from other bands, The Cardinals, The Cliffords and Hannahbella turned up. It was very nice to have that level of support for our first gig in London, almost like a soft landing.

Asha: It was so cool to see so many people come out to support us, and how they packed out the room and the venue cleared out as soon as we were gone. It was amazing that we could have that for our first gig outside of the country.

Louis: So far, ye have collaborated with a lot of other local creatives to bring Pebbledash to life across different media. Is there anyone ye’ve worked with ye’d like to give a shout out?

Asha: Definitely Failenn [O’Dwyer], she produced the “Slowly, Slowly” video and we’d go back to her in a heartbeat.

Louis: That video is a work of art.

Asha: Honestly, my favourite thing about Pebbledash is working with people who use different mediums. Getting to see Pebbledash through film, or Pebbledash through fashion, and how it’s all coming from the same place. And we’re also really lucky that we’ve mostly only worked with women as well. It’s always nice to see when a win for us is also a win for someone else, like when we’re featured in a magazine and it’s Emilyn [Cardona] who took the photo, or Molly [Ní Bhróin] who made our outfits. It’s such a collaborative effort and it’s nice to be building something together. It definitely takes a village.

Louis: I love that. For me, Pebbledash is such a multifaceted project where nothing is superfluous and everyone behind it is working to the fullest degree to bring it all together.

Fionnbharr: I think that’s been a constant throughout all the different iterations of the band.

We’re not doing anything just for the sake of it. It’s all part of the picture, from the lyrics, to how we play, to the visuals and music videos. It’s a worldbuilding sort of thing.

Asha: That’s the best word for it, we are worldbuilding!

Louis: Before we finish up, is there anything exciting you’re working on that you’d like to share?

Cormac: We have a few exciting gigs coming up! We’re playing Bandon Folk Club, then supporting Skinner in Winthrop Avenue on the 27th of February after the release of his new album. Then we have our own headline in Winthrop on the 27th of March. It’s our first Cork headline in a while and it’s great to be back to doing local gigs after being in London.

Pebbledash are on a roll, as a standout presence in a new wave of exciting local talent. They are at the peak of their success and showing no signs of stopping any time soon. I was delighted with the opportunity to chat to them and to learn a bit more about what makes them tick. Driven by a desire to express their lived experience through diverse mediums, held together by a deep sense of Irishness and pride of place, Pebbledash are the architects of a new sound. Who knows what they will build next?

The Importance of the First Day Out Song by Leo Troy Recently, I was listening to the new Rio Da Yung Og album, which came out within a month after he was released from his three year stint in jail for firearm and drug possession. It’s a return to form as he links up with his signature producers and raps hilarious bars over aggressively hyperactive beats (such as explaining that mixing two drugs together is “very demure” or how when he’s paranoid he answers the phone in his “scary voice”). Halfway through the album, however, there is a shift in tone as ‘RIO FREE’ plays. It was his main single for the album, and only came out three days after he was released. It opens with a solemn piano and as the beat picks up Rio brushes off his past few years in his typical blasé fashion (“I had a forty-year-old man calling me big bro”, he brags). There is nonetheless an underlying bitterness throughout, one part due to his cousin snitching on him (“I took a plea and did my time, I am not my cousin” he growls, and further on in the album he deviously wishes that his cousin “go to jail and get none of his mail”) and the other part due to his absence from rap. Just before Rio was locked up, he was on the verge of making it big. Since then, the regional sound of Michigan has blown up, spearheaded by the likes of Babytron, Veeze and Babyface Ray, all without Rio. Over that operatic intro, Rio puts himself on top again, confidently stating “It’s my turn now”. It’s a new leaf, a rebirth only afforded to him through the brutal American incarceration system.

‘RIO FREE’ is an example of the “First Day Out” song, a trope rife in rap music. The first song made after a stint in jail is often a comeback anthem, a symbolic reclaiming of the crown, but also an opportunity to reflect. Among the throngs of rappers who have put pen to the penitentiary are Chief Keef, Offset, Young Nudy, Kodak Black, Gucci Mane (twice), JT from the City Girls and Tee Grizzley. Benefitting from a system that pits low-income, African-Americans against one another, the prison industrial complex has long had a steady grip on profiting off this broken structure. These songs are a form of protest, a defiant stance against the corrupt authority that wishes to fill its cages. But these songs are also an opportunity for the artists to look inwards and reflect.

Gucci Mane’s ‘First Day Out’ from 2012 is the original song in this style. Whenever other rappers make their own just-out-of-jail song, they are referencing Gucci.

It’s bombastic, it’s braggadocious and it’s a return to normality. What’s the first thing a newly-free man does in the morning?

“I’m starting off my day with a blunt”, he cackles in the very first line. It’s the most defiant you can be against a system trying to hold you down and it’s inherently political, even if it’s a sly image.

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However, it’s his song after being released from his second stint in jail for firearm possession that truly shifted his viewpoint. On ‘First Day Out Tha Feds’ he claims “I bend, I don’t break, I don’t ask, I take”- he’s constantly adapting to his situation, learning and growing each time. His time in jail spurred on a rejuvenation, one which included a process of complete sobriety and a new workout routine (a turnaround so intense that it caused conspiracy theories that he was cloned, as he went in with a beer belly and came out with a lean six pack). ”In hindsight I see it for what it was: I was a drug addict,” he said in an interview for the New York Times in 2016. “I was naïve to the fact that I was numb.” He was driven to improve himself, started focusing on his own record label and wrote a book. And this is not to say that the time spent behind concrete walls, under mass incarceration, was a good thing- as we’ve seen, he can create just as much of a difference by having a joint for breakfast- it just shows how he was able to strive to be a better person, actively looking for a chance of renewal. He’s well aware of what he’s done in the past and is trying to make amends. “I did some things to some people that was downright evil”, he raps, “Is it karma coming back to me, so much drama”. He talks about losing three people close to him all in one summer and how even his own mother has turned her back on him. The song is a first step forward in the long road ahead, a chance for rebirth that has reshaped his relationship with everything around him. As he said in a 2016 interview for XXL, “I think the three years I spent in prison played a critical role in me being the person I am now. It taught me how to really appreciate my freedom and appreciate the job I got. I respect the position I’m in in hip-hop and I take none of that for granted”. ‘First Day Out Tha Feds’ lets him live out this new life, with an accompanying video of him dancing around his Miami mansion with an ankle bracelet that doesn’t seem to hold him down.

Most recently, Young Thug was released from trial purgatory. In what turned out to be the longest court case in Georgia history, he was drawn in and out of prison since May 2022 for several court appearances. Now that he’s out of jail, fans have been itching to hear what his first song will be. Will it be an ascendance to the throne? A tell-all tale pulling back the curtain on a judicial drama? Well, on a feature on Lil Baby’s song ‘Dum, Dumb and Dumber’ from his newest album, he nonchalantly quashes any queries about his absence. “I don’t even believe I was locked up, forreal”, he teases, “I was having my own way the whole time, fool, you know what I’m saying?”. The rest of the verse is classic Thug imagery- a multiplex of cars, college girls, yacht life- all within his comfort zone. A return to form, for sure, but not quite a rebirth or renewal. Time will tell how he’ll express his time spent at court. Thug has always had a more emotional streak in his music, particularly on his 2021 album ‘Punk’ which swapped out his standard trap production for mellow guitars.

Perhaps we’ll have to wait just a little longer to get Thug’s own First Day Out, but with everything he’s been through, we can let him live a little first.

The First Day Out song has a long and influential history in hip-hop. It can be both an opportunity to show a middlefinger to authority, defying their laws and scheming to be up to no good once more, and it can also be an opportunity for the artist to turn a new leaf, look back at their past whilst striving for a new future. As long as the system of mass incarceration is in place in America, rappers will have to exist in areas of low opportunities and struggle to survive.

But maybe one day, once this racist prison structure is brought down, rappers can renew themselves and grow on their own terms, without the need of a song to do it.

32

The Words of a Future Expat

by Stephen O’Brien

(Edna O’Brien, Mother Ireland)

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At the start of January I made a trip to Paris; this was not my first time there, nor my first trip by myself, but it was the first time visiting since having decided that I will live here someday. .....

My first proper trip to Paris in 2023 was a solo journey: I had cancelled my planned Erasmus in Groningen due to a comically chronic bout of tonsillitis, and used that money to fund my hejira. I loved the city, I loved the metro, I loved how every street seemed to be catered to one specific thing… I fell in love with the place. Part of that love might have been from my desperation to escape the mess of my life back in Ireland, but a lot of the love was from experiencing a city that felt like it wasn’t eating itself away whose arts and culture was dying in favour of vulture funds and tech company HQs. Sure, there were dingy and depressing parts of Paris, but nothing that I wouldn’t see on a daily basis in any ‘city’ in Ireland.

I started reading Just Kids by Patti Smith whilst on that hejira (soundtracked, of course, by Joni Mitchell’s Hejira) – starting in Paris, stopping in Brussels, ending in Amsterdam. Smith herself seemed to be just as enamoured as I was with the place; despite the fact she was living that Chelsea Hotel bohemian lifestyle that so many people since her have tried to emulate, she was drawn to Paris for its art, and its history. Her memoir became the guide that I was looking for in that lost period of my life, where I stopped journaling in a desire to forget the past. To run away from it. In an ironic way, that avoidance of documenting my life made me realize the power of words and of literature, and coupled with the prose of Patti Smith I began to revel in my intentional exile, detaching from the restrictions of acquaintances and the distraction of company. I fell a bit in love with myself and my creative abilities, and through that I fell further in love with Paris.

Since that trip, blessed by the soaring temperatures of climate change, I knew I would need to return, albeit in the wintertime. I eventually decided upon this Christmas break; I would see Paris in the winter, reconnect with one or two people I knew over there, plus get to meet up with the focus of my dissertation, American author Dennis Cooper. During those final weeks of college I wrote multiple essays, with one of those essays focused on the renowned Irish author Edna O’Brien. Her life story is a typical 20th century Irish story; a talented woman is restricted and repressed by the Catholic culture she was born into, though instead of succumbing to the pressures of social rules, O’Brien defied them, moving to London to escape the suffocation of Ireland. Her seminal novel The Country Girls (1960) was banned in Ireland, with praise only being shown to her in the 21st century; The Country Girls was well-received in the UK, the US, and particularly in France. In fact, O’Brien was awarded the “Ordre des Arts et Lettres” in 2021 for "both for the quality of her writing but also for her universal struggles which received a particular resonance in France". I did not know about this until recently, an interesting connection for this article, but I digress.

I read O’Brien’s Mother Ireland in its entirety for research when writing that aforementioned essay, and certain lines jumped out at me as I was suffering with a certain ennui that comes from Irish wintertime: I wanted to leave, this time for good. She opens the final chapter with: “But I had got away. That was my victory.” In that moment, sat in the Boole library stressing over two distinct assignments with a shared due date, I understood her. Ireland feels like an overbearing mother, coddling you into accepting the unacceptable. I think back to my days of secondary school, how the world consisted of my Glanmire peers and the additional Paul Streeter or Webhead. It was like living in a gas leak, intoxicating me into hating myself and making me feel inferior to the tracksuit pants, short back-and-sides oligarchy that set the standard. I escaped that world through psychiatric stays and dissociation, vowing that I need never try to conform to social rules again. College felt freeing, but only for a while. O’Brien’s memoir put into words what I had been feeling: Ireland is “people reluctant to admit that there is anything wrong”, and those of us who leave, leave “because we beg to differ”. .....

So this brings me back to my trip in January: I knew by then that I was destined to move, preferably to Paris.

I spent a night in Beauvais, which in my head I considered the Middleton of France, complete with motorways, countryside, and car dealerships. The weather was dreary, yet still better than the snowstorm that was hitting home. The next day, I travelled by train to Paris, reading Junky by Burroughs and listening to the new Ethel Cain release, Perverts, which felt destined to be the soundtrack of this trip.

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I took in the French countryside too, as it reminded me a bit of the Kent–Heuston train ride I knew so well.

When I arrived I felt like I had returned home, but not the home that lives with my parents, instead the ‘home’ of my College Road bedroom: what it lacked in the nostalgia of established memories, it made up for in the promise of new ones. I made my way to the same hostel in Place de la Nation I stayed in previously, and prepared myself for the next few days.

Whilst I travelled on my own, each day included a meeting with someone. The first was my friend Kwentin, whom I met up with on that previous trip. We got food and walked around the city for the night, using his skills as a museum guide to teach me about the opulence of the 7th arrondissement, and brought me to finally see the Eiffel Tower up-close. As a Corsica native, he knows what to expect moving to Paris, and has been a well of information for me. I appreciate the friendship I have with him greatly, an example of the (few) positives of social media! This trip also involved meeting Dennis Cooper, and I did just that on the Thursday. We met up in La Favorite, somewhere right near a Starbucks I went into last time as a means of dabbing my profusely sweaty face off. He’s an incredibly low-key man, and though I was nervous (he was the focus of my dissertation after all!) I quickly became comfortable talking to him. I told him about Ireland and my ambivalence about moving, how I would love to stay in Cork, but I know that I can’t become the person I want to be if I do. We spoke too about his work, as it’s been a large influence for me, but he was such a humble guy that the conversation shifted towards discussions of art and pop culture. I even ended up mentioning reading Just Kids on my last trip, and how it made me “want to live homeless in New York until I realized that’s a terrible idea”. We ended the day with him shopping for groceries, and a hug before departing on opposite metros, saying we’d meet up again whenever I’m back.

On my last day, I walked around the 20th arrondissement, slowly making my way to Pere Lachaise Cemetery; Patti visited there to see Jim Morrison’s grave, so I thought that I might as well follow suit.

Morrison’s grave wanted to make an impression on me as when I arrived, there was a group of people drinking wine and listening to The Doors. I felt a bit overwhelmed the night before, but this pocket of nature made me feel safe. I realized that Pere Lachaise felt a bit like Ireland, comforting greenery with the historical grey stones of graves and tombs, and earthy paths that wind about. It reminded me of my teen days spent walking through woods or fields, briefly crossing paths with a cat or other wanderer. It was the catharsis I needed from this trip, as I knew that I could in fact live in Paris and be ok.

I spent that night with Blaise, a friend of mine who recently moved over to be an au pair. We went to an Irish pub called Kitty O’Shea’s, a name that would be cringeworthy if I wasn’t so happy to see something that resembled a pub like the Pav or The Oval in Cork. I found myself acting intensely Irish, as if it was a performance, but I think that I was missing the accents and the melody so much that I was trying to take its place. I told Blaise about Pere Lachaise, and its magical properties as a portal to Ireland, and I hope that she puts it to use whenever she’s homesick.

On the train ride back to the airport, I found myself staring out the window once again at the landscape. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I saw a bit of Ireland everywhere I went. I know that all countryside looks relatively the same, I knew it even whilst thinking that; what I was realizing instead was that ultimately I do love Ireland, and I will probably try to bring it everywhere I go. I’m sure that’s how the millions who’ve emigrated since 1847 have felt. Even Edna O’Brien did, writing novels about Clare and Dublin, returning constantly even with her terrible reputation there. .....

I wish I could change my mind, and decide that I could live the rest of my days in Cork, but I fear that the person I am is not compatible with the country that Ireland is. Eventually, I will have to leave here. I love Cork, and Ireland, but I will always feel the uncomfortable eye of acquaintances, judging me for living the way that to me feels right. I feel safe with the knowledge though, that I can find our beautiful country no matter where I go, whether it be in a graveyard or an Irish pub. I relate once more to O’Brien’s Mother Ireland, where she writes: “Irish? In truth I would not want to be anything else. It is a state of mind as well as an actual country.”

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Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Do you think that Cork is having a bit of a creative resurgence?

Louis: The creative scene in Cork is definitely thriving at the moment, not just for poetry and literature, but also music and film and just all sorts of community-focused creative projects. I think we’re in a real fertile period for the arts right now, maybe since last summer, there’s always so many amazing events on that it's sometimes hard to keep track of them all. I’m really lucky to live in this city and proud to call it my home. I’ve always had a sense of Cork as a vibrant and artsy city and I think that might have fizzled out a bit with the pandemic, but I feel like it’s always been there and is never going to go away. But it’s definitely at a sort of peak right now. It might sound a bit bleak, but there is definitely a growing uncertainty about the future and the rights of Queer people and other marginalised groups are looking more and more precarious with how things are playing out in the US. So I can’t help but feel recently like the call to creativity and self expression and community is more out of necessity than just a growing appetite for these things. Of course there are other causes behind it too, but it’s clear to see from the response we’ve had to Litreacha that Cork is full of amazing and talented artists.

Em: Yes! I feel like Cork is hot shit right now!

Who are some of your favourite poets/writers?

It's very Leaving Cert English of me, but Em: I love Elizabeth Bishop, and Anton Chekhov is my MAN! it's also very vintage. poetry for some reason, but I’m trying to Louis: Honestly I don’t tend to read a lot of other people’s st by Pádraig Ó’Tuama for a long time work on that. I’ve been listening to the Poetry Unbound podca he talks about them. I got quite into and I love a lot of the poem’s he’s read on there and the way the Hyakunin Isshu, which is 100 of the ancient Japanese waka poetry over the summer when I read ry. They’re all very short, but very most famous waka poems from the seventh to thirteenth centu crazy to me how long these poems have complex and full of observations on life, love, and nature. It’s I would say I get more inspiration from survived and how they can still be relatable and influential. ite writers recently is Claire Keegan, fiction writers than from poetry, though. One of my favour fullest. She’s one of the most important especially her short stories, she really uses the form to its Irishness and this kind of nostalgic, but voices in Irish fiction right now and she captures a sense of s. One of my favourite books I’ve read not romanticised, sense of rural Ireland down to the finest detail on so many heavy topics but overall it’s in a long time is Young Mungo by Douglas Stuart. It touches g of age which I find really inspiring such an unflinching and sympathetic exploration of queer comin punch in the best way. I’m also really and something I try to write about a lot. That book was a gut being Adrianne Lenker, Joni Mitchell, inspired by music and lyrics, some of my favourite songwriters Joanna Newsom, Björk and so many others.

Any plans to venture into more collaborative events?

Em: Oh absolutely! We are always plotting and scheming… was so magical and it was so nice Louis: Our crossover with Pebbledash in Plugd last November creative worlds intersect. I also for myself and Asha to get to support each other and see our linking up with all these other loved being a part of the Solace festival in December and miscellany type of event similar to community initiatives and supporting their events. I think a combined with music from other the Pebbledash one, where we have poetry and storytelling it’s been great working with Éist artists in a larger venue would be really cool. Like I mentioned, that goes. We’ve never done radio and editing for Good Day and I’m excited to see where knows what’s going to happen! anything with film, so that could be a cool opportunity. Who Lottery or car crash or you join a cult! Possibly maybe…?

Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha Litreacha