Jan 21


When I was younger you would never see me not holding a camera. One of those 'old' film cameras. A Canon 500 N to be exact. There are countless photos of me clinging to it for dear life. Photos of me at an arsenal match, in the park and on the floor. Its the same thing now, if its not a camera in my hand its me raving on about a phone. One with a DSLR specs incorporated in it. Photography is my life but life gets hard. You grow up and suddenly what everyone else thinks and says matters more. I fell out of love with the one thing that lets me love. I packed away my cameras - shipped them back to my Grandfather. To someone who still loved them.

Thing about life is you always find your purpose. You always find yourself on the right track. My track just got a little wonky.

I was born to hold a camera in my hands. 
Jan 19

Granda Paddy

My Great-Grandfather lived in his own house, on his own, for as long as he could. He was an old man. His house was crowded with little memorabilia of his life. Whenever you went to visit him he would be sat in that chair with his hat on his head. An old gentlemans hat, a fedora, over his eyes. The last time I remember being in his house it was a weird day. We were clearing out his medicine drawer. It was a chest of drawers full to the brim of medicine. The look on my Nana’s face when she pulled out bottle after bottle of out of date tablets. The fear she felt for him evident in her eyes as she asked him over and over what bottle he was using last.
Dec 28


The pitch was hidden away
Behind the straight tarmac road.
The rain had just stopped, so
The dewy grass overwhelmed you, and
The pitch lines had washed away.

The whistle blew for kick off,
It was a blur from that single moment,
Pa passed the ball,
I was centre midfield,
That was when it kicked up.

I was beat and aware,
Aware of the number 9 on my back,
Of how the rain had returned and was hitting my face;    
Hitting my back.

Aware of the herds of black and red jerseys.
The dogs barking at the rabbit.
Aware of the mud on my boots, and
The daisy stuck in my lace.

I caught sight at my coach, my grandfather
One in the same,
In that moment I was performing for my grandfather and my coach,
*A saighdiúir
He stands tall and straight,
His face carrying the story of a battle fought,
As I focus the world fades out,
Dec 25


Everything I had always done was for him. My grandfather. He was the man who always looked at me like he cared. I mean, he also looked at me like I was a complete idiot. But it was with love that the look bore into my skull. I could imagine it right now. His eyes would stare into your soul almost, his head turned at a 45 degree angle to look at you, naturally of course. But the best part was the laugh that would rise out of me when he looked at me like that. It was the look that let me know my grandfather was okay. That he was good.
Dec 21

The Shot.

Sunlight dipped across her face, her eyes shone in time with the sea.

I could feel the weight of my camera as if it were a part of me. Hanging off my shoulder, swaying in time with the waves ahead of me. Standing here I could picture the image from the set. I could see the end product even as they walked the model up onto the rocks.
Dec 19


So many moments in my life have changed who I am. Made me who I am. Little things like my accent but also big things like my first feis. My first published article. My first 8 on an exam. Things I can’t remember, things that I could recall down to what colour socks I was wearing. All of these played a part in making me who I am and right now, I couldn’t be happier for every struggle and heartbreak I have gone through. Everything played a part.
Dec 05


The smile would spread across her face, 
The twinkle would appear in her eye, 
Her head turning ever so slightly
Before she let out her laugh, if you could call it a laugh.
It was more of a cackle, 
Almost as if she knew that you would be haunted by the words she had just said

Dropping snippets of ideas here and there, 
Her fingers tapping as she spoke,
Whispering the truth,
Paranoia would set in,
Lost in thought, she would ramble on 
And on. 

It was part of her plan, 
Her scheme to get you to do what she wanted,
Make your paranoid and over think,
That smile spreading across her face,
Fingers tapping,
Her head whiping back as she dropped that final bomb.

Leaving you open and vunerable to everyone and everything.
Dec 03

Smarter, Prettier, Better

You know that feeling you get when you know that something is wrong. That someone is wrong. Bad for you. You know that it could never work. You know it but yet you just can't seem to shake it off. They are everywhere, all the goddamn time. Always lurking behind a corner, seemingly waiting to give you a heart attack. Thing is though, they dont know just how much your heart would give for them. 

They don't understand what goes through your head when you see them. Their smile, laugh. Even the way they bloody type when taking notes. Always there. Teasing. Laughing. Joking. Breaking your heart every time you see them smile at their phone. Hear them say that word. Talk about that girl who seems so much smarter and prettier. So much better then you. 
Dec 02

Broken Ornament.

“I hope they find a brain tumour or something because otherwise she is really messed up”.

When I heard those words I fell. A part of me died. I realised right then and there that I was on my own. No one else understood, because I couldn’t tell them. I didn’t know how to. What I was going through is not spoken about. My mental illness became my secret, I knew that no one really cared. I was on my own.

She had been angry at me, because I couldn’t keep up the charade anymore. Decorating the tree, that hour or two was too much on me. Constantly being shouted at, belittled. Of course I snapped. Who wouldn’t? They definitely didn’t hide what they felt why should I. Why should I smile and grit through it just so that they don’t get upset.
Dec 02


He was fast asleep. His eyes closed, eyelashes fluttering; still grabbing my finger with his little hand. I think of tomorrow. He will come running into the kitchen telling me how he dreamed of Fionn fighting a bad guy. Or, how Cú Chulainn bought that rich old man a new dog as a sorry gift. The joy that will be in his eyes, that laughter that will radiate around the kitchen.

Then it hits; like always. My little boy is in love with who he is and where he is from. The myths and legends. The warriors who once done the same things he did. It hits me that to share this joy of his I needed to learn, or well re-learn about who I am and where I am from. That I need a book to read about his heroes with him. That I had to re-learn my language just so I could pronounce the names right. I went to school once with kids who had these names. Yet somewhere along the way I let it go. I dropped who I was where I was from. That it took my own little boy to make me remember.