Aileen O’Carroll

@aaocarroll.bsky.social

2588 Followers 3024 Following

Sociology (#work, #class, #time & #tech). Policy geek at the Digital Repository of Ireland (#archive #data #privacy #gdpr ). @ Maynooth University. She, her. Also cats, jokes & typos

Picture of yellow flowers against blue skies and a green sea.
Grass, brown leaves and purple and yellow crocus
A picture of a white teddy bear leaning against a lamp post with a bottle of beer
A picture of an old hard computer disc which is being used as a conference badge.
First Remembered Dress It was red and white, Red ground, white spots, Smocking on the bodice, Puff sleeves, Sturdy cotton but pretty too, Nearly to my knees. A dress which did not inconvenience my lifestyle, Those altogether necessary pursuits, Tree climbing, egg collecting, puddle paddling, Berry picking, bird nesting, wall walking. A dress not found unsuitable by aunts Or any of their lady friends Up there above me. A dress which went with me to pray, To learn about the tragic death of my Redeemer. A dress which nearly was my skin When I was six.
The university is fast losing its public character. With the disappearance of the funding it once took for granted, it has had to sell itself by charging students rising fees, begging for contributions from donors and alumni, seeking corporate investment, creating public-private partnerships, speculating on its real estate, and turning the university into a hedge fund by leveraging its "brand." Such revenue-raising is supplemented with cost cutting through online education and cuts in wages, salaries, and benefits for its employees, and by replacing expensive tenured faculty with much cheaper contingent faculty. With commodification comes dis-possession. The university has been increasingly hijacked by a class of "spiralists" — circulating administrators and their management consultants, concerned more with finance than education and research, who thereby threaten the very functions they are hired to protect. We can no longer take the university for granted—it has to become an object of investigation as well as a launching pad for investigation.
The stump of a tree fallen on a wall
Three people pick apples from a tree.
A library. On the screen a film of two young Traveller women talking, sitting on the stage below the screen, three Traveller women are looking up at the screen.
Film poster for Fancy Dance
Pat O’Conner speaking at the launch of her book.
Front cover of the book The End of Drum-Time by Hanna Pylvaåinen
A cup of coffee, toast and jam, the sea
Two gray rucksacks heading to Sicily.
A lull can be soothing, tranquilizing, and even restor-ative. It can be a time to retune and replenish. A lull can suggest a state of peaceful hovering, a prolonged mental daydream, a weightless interval. One can be lulled to sleep or lulled into a trance. Yet for many artists I know, the word lull signifies the exact opposite: the absence, the flaw, the incom-pleteness, something lethal and dangerous, a source of fear and melancholia. There are layered reasons for this: 1. Superstition. A common and reasonable anxiety among artists is that creativity will flatline without constant practice. Confidence will wane, muscles will grow flaccid. What starts off as a lull will become a rut. The muse will flee. 2. Capitalism. We live in a culture of high performance and competitiveness. Even artists, perennial outlanders who appear to have more freedom from conventional market expectations than most, feel they must maximize productivity and extract the most out of every day.
Some Cats have that Effect on You The cat sat in the tree at the close of day. She was a night-time tree cat Dedicated to owl watching. What a fat cat she was, A capitalist cat, Possessing her assets. Round with fur floating, All aerated. Milky green eyes between the leaves, Ovals of lime. Blinking her thoughts into the spirals Of her cute cat brain. Her name is Enigma. Come, Enigma, come down to earth! Condescend. Lap with your sly cat tongue The pale milk waiting. Due tribute to your beauty, Your restrained, self-serving, independent, domineering Affection.
MOMENT IN CALLAN BEFORE CHRISTMAS We drove from Dublin for the funeral Through clear air. Bright fields in chilly sunshine. The straight road to Kilkenny cutting through Luxurious land. Trees and grasses grew tall And hedges were thick with complex life, even in winter. All that met our eyes was pleasing, rich and generous. It was the day approaching Christmas Eve. Small towns had slung lights, Brave and festive. But yet, we drove to a funeral. We made our way To that final boundary, Reminder of limits En route to pay our dues, Dues of affection, Dues of memory to a man now gone. He was resurrected in our conversation, The shaping of his shadow, His life recalled, Dates located for his rites of passage, Marriage, fatherhood, widowhood Now death. The presenter's voice on the car radio Spoke of today.