A GAELIC MARKET.

On Saturday, July 26, 2014, Martin Law <martin.rainbowmaker@gmail.com> wrote:

I could say 'Irish', but that's an English word.

But then, so is 'Gaelic'. Margadh Gaeilge, a Gaelic market.

Between a lapping seagull sparkled harbour and high green backdrop hill, ant people are mingling on dry stone, drawn to converge and pause under canopies, fluttering flags, banners and balloons. Corralled by a foursquare continuous convoy of creeping buglike metallic conveyances. Being a pattern repeating over solar centuries every seven days.

A brief breezeblown pause among high cumulus clusters in the blue void, before zooming in through veils and vapours.

While, on the ground, diversity flashes kaleidoscopically into vivid focus. Market day, and a fine sunny day in July.

We are out in force, with a thousand conversations occurring simultaneously, and all unpremeditated. Nobody knew what they were about to say, or what they might hear or see. All happening organically in flawless spontaneity. All in a timeless continuum of a bright breeze off the sea.

From a hawk high vision of surrounding folds and hollows in the blanket of the rural psyche, pinpointing strewn remnants of generations.

Grainy monochrome glimpses of farmers' markets frozen in photographic moments long past.

Drawn to mingle and gather on a wide square of dung-dotted stony ground. Long lines of parked pony and trap, donkey carts against an austere backdrop of barracks and mills.

Milling crowds in black suits, overcoats and hats, the women long frocked and veiled or wrapped in shawls. Patient ponies parked, breeding cattle corralled in clusters, straggling children, and barking dogs, prize ponies and caged ducks, cocks, and chickens. The same tarpaulin tents and fluttering flags, frozen outside time.

In dormant provincial decay, hounded by the holy of holies and shackled by the angelus.

Wrapped in grey newspaper headlines of the smoke of war and sagas of uprising.

Why get stuck there, forever bandaging the wound? Go deeper, beyond the rudiments of industry and servitude, and ask a Druid. Echoes of Tara awakening and the 'real' fall of Rome revisited.

Because this time all the cats are out of the bag, and it's a different kettle of fish and the cows are coming home to roost.

So in case you wonder about all this fluttering of flags and what it reminds you of that you can't quite put your finger on. This forever urge to gather the stray living strands from the relics of dust and doctrine. Connecting the dots all the way to a nexus of upsurge and true tribal revival.

 

 

The peoples' market, a multifarious diversity of banter and barter, balloons, and local colour,

and practical produce, in the face of uniformity and plastic trash, is really a give-away.

Whether you trade with sea shells or minted metal discs and printed paper promises, it's a coming together in synch with the tides and seasons of freedom and fortune. A primitive prototype of all that's fair, marketing the surviving vestiges of community.

Rudimentary it may be. But there's enough there, local food, clothes, crafts, and tools, to expand a network of local currency. When the big giants crash, we still have a shared link to renewed evolution outside the mechanistic matrix. Practicalities are the prerogative of 'people', not patriarchs.

Instead of fake progress, things we don't actually 'need', which only serve to enslave in debt, 'a faith worse than debt.' Return to bonding with the folds and features of the land

and natural untainted food growing no matter how small the scale. If everyone grew food and the fields were full, abundance would be free.

Regional, local, evolving again. Wiser than when we were unwittingly outwitted, wandering from the way. What more can i say? Just a few glimpses of market day.

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Makes Rainbows.~