Laney mannion

Printmaker, Artist Storyteller. https://www.facebook.com/LaneyMannionartist/ 1/2 of the sound art group QUEEF https://soundcloud.com/queef-2

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Lambing 2026

The curlew calls banshee like

A cry in the pitch black lit only by torchlight

The prosody of the night startles

The am wanders carry my feet through soggy ground

A knowingness under foot internal gps of home

By full moon light the shadows through the stone wall dance

Leaf structure waves around like fairy stories

The Atlantic crashes bangs against shore line

The night is singing all around me

The wind whistles cold eastern

A sting in the inner ear

I wish for you to be born in the daylight I meditate to myself

A prayer to the skies in the dark night

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duvets for your ears

i don't want you to please my ear

say the hard thing

sugar coating only makes it palatable for a certain time

until the belly is full and achey

fuel me with honesty

don't veil the truth

don't hide the words in duvets

softening the blow

to later impact with weight

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A trip down memory laney: 12pm Thursday afternoon

They sit out there on the waters edge and I watch them

heavy metalers distinguished by there biker jackets heavy boots smoking fags

Im inside the hunt museum there is a massive old old tree right in front of my view i wonder how old it is, im not interested in the ecology today 

Distracted by heavy metalers drinking cans its 12pm on a thursday afternoon their supping on cans of druids 

its an icy chill and the branches are nearly naked im sipping on coffee drawing conclusions theres a hint of blue in the sky i doubt they notice the surrounds as they face each other smoking fags at 12pm on a thursday afternoon 

a white terrier is walked by a well wrapped up man 

strolls past and back again past heavy metalers drinking can by the shannon 12pm thursday afternoon 

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A trip down memory laney: pondering the crow

The king that lost his crow, been seeing a lot of crows, on my walks around the city, stomping out stress processing of information. connecting dots watching big machines crunch big metal mountains at the docks noise and spray and celtic explorers. skimming pebbles on the beach while sticking sand in my socks. wind swept face, freeze the air in my mind bubbling chaotic. 

 what does the crow symbolize? why am I seeing so many fucking crows?. Superstition is ingrained in me, my grandfather truly believed in fairies, it bares a mark of respect for the natural world, its power and changeability. stems from Greek mythology, the Greeks believed in today's terms some wacky shit. 

In Celtic mythology, the Morrighan is known as a goddess of battle and war and would often appear in the form of a crow, in later years she became the  bain sidhe or to you and me the banshee.  

  "I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge. That myth is more potent than history. ... And I believe that love is stronger than death."  Robert Fulghum 

myth is more powerful it was known by such a great amount of people as a symbol of something, history is often written down and forgotten.

    we live in this flighty effervescent transient symbols and notions..

  into the Pedagogy of Hope stepping into the unknown taking risks ? 

sure why fucking not

  “No one leaves his or her world without being transfixed by its roots, or with a vacuum for a soul. We carry with us the memory of many fabrics, a self soaked in our history, our culture; a memory, sometimes scattered, sometimes sharp and clear, of the streets of our childhood, of our adolescence; the reminiscence of something distant that suddenly stands out before us, in us, a shy gesture, an open hand, a smile lost in time and misunderstanding, a sentence, a simple sentence, possibly now forgotten by the one who said it. A word for so long a time attempted and never spoken, always stifled in inhibition, in the fear of being rejected- which as it implies a lack of confidence in ourselves, also means refusal to risk.”  Paulo Freire

or do we remain in a poetry of indifference 

‘The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.” Ulysses ,Tennyson 

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A Trip Down Memory Laney- Hush Now (Hold The Line 2019)

Hushed tones ones of seriousness, illness and death. 

 There is a low tone of people speaking things they would rather not utter. 

It is amplified over the phone by the holding of breath and sharp pauses between words,

forced out 

it is a lowering of tone to the gentlest compassionate flow

 it is a sadness, 

it holds the most unbelievable force of not wanting to say the words at all.

Tone of voice triggers a panic attack, illogical reaction.

Learning the phonetics of something bad happening.

 ears are tuned to the negative.

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“Prime sit development for sale” (Limerick city, November 2018)

Prime site development Carpeted in broken glass overhead sunbeams wrestle with grey blanket clouds.

Slow squelchy feet ground underneath wet, walk past clinking dog chains seabirds squawk as dogs relieve themselves owners casually walk on forgetting others treads…

Tires roll by clanking locks close, as mothers harassed by school child asking questions carrying neon backpacks on shoulders filled with young scribbled knowledge

Nuance tumble out the daily affairs another day done

As the pace of tires grows more plentiful over connecting bridges

Drifting and driving momentum

The footpath carries conversations amplified on city streets

As I thank god it’s not lashing today

A blackbird sings a song to entertain itself

Rain falls like teardrops

Threatening torrential  

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The Artist

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Billy apple

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A trip down memory laney: I woke to see

I watched the grey clouds roar around the sky in Connemara, out in the middle of the Atlantic there was a storm in full swing, it whipped out the sea till a glassy mirror grey surrounded the bay a solid line of black in the murky dept.

 out beyond the horizon the high and low pressure did battle, fighting forward, wrestling, it fell quite on land a stillness descended, the only notion of turmoil was the racing grey clouds.

The warmth in the wind carried in with it cold sharp breaths of weather conflicts.

 I wondered would it force its way ashore... it seemed it would with the black horizon haunting.

I went to slumber dreaming of giants hands pushing the water forward and back like a child in the bath making waves. I could hear the lapping of the waves grow louder, a gentle tapping on the tin roof. 

I woke to see the rain fall the day grey with clouds, I could feel the pressure building till once again the sun caressed the skies.

Noon came welcoming bright shining rays, pushing all the grey away, back out to vast Atlantic Ocean, back out with the giants into the swells in the dept's,

 I pondered the world and its magical mystery's, as the evening came, whisked rainbow clouds scattered through the sky, burning ember brights the sun went down on my world, to light up the other side of the world. I marvelled at my eyes to be present to see such things. 

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A Trip Down Memory Laney: Tá mé anseo

I work within the ubiquitous, the sentimental, and the cliché an autobiographical memory of my position within society, looking inwards and out.

It has become a collective narrative within Irish society.

A chaos collides of the ungraspable.

Lost culture, new cultures, knowledge, knowing and the unknown.

Reasons for something and the unreasonable, it is everything and it is nothing.

Imagining in colour kaleidoscope dreams and make believe.

It is what it is.

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As love would have it

Could we just lay beneath the cloud cover entwined your mind filled with chatter just for me gaze into eyes wide and I wonder is your heart big enough to fit me in it? If we went to the cold Irish shores put sand in our socks would you pretend to be in the Bahamas with me? I would like to tell you all the tales the velvet images of my mind I would imagine them up just for you I would weave a story with you in it my heart has a space for you

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New York the world away over the ocean

busing Aiporting the first instances of traveling lone ranger suspected, customs wired up walkie talkie take your shoes off put your shoes on, take your shoes off, X-ray your inner demons suspect terrorist scanned eyes, scanned paws wrong hand nerves left right left right tom thumb scanned filed, what is your purpose for your visit why didn’t you stay longer in the most expensive place in the world who knows who cares is it your fillings are they made from bombs, wish I hadn’t stood in ashes before I put my shoes on in the morning, dirty socks standing wide eyed sweating hangover out at customs staredown, give up now turn back to the irish soil and stay at home the lines and paths and questions make me wonder who put this system together, sitting in room training show us your best stink eye no more more more intense stink eye stare down skills homeland security homeland security customs america america the free world the tourist interrogation. flying through the air looking through the clouds and wondering flight miles cabin crew mishaps and trolleys filled with over priced shite trapped in the air cabin of the big steel flight machine, off across an entire ocean to minus 13 wind chill freezing, baggage mishaps and broken suitcase wheeling along a twisting fighting monster, gawking at times square big lights and bright flashy madness, wondering what kinda shite did i bring to wear not a stitch of it practical wear in the cold spell of the city that never sleeps jet lag wonders blocked brain snots from reconditioned air, sleeping eh noisey noise invaded my brain as I tried to slumber made for a weird dreaming filled with twisted words mingling with subconscious conscious horrors sirens and shouting  endless movement whirling swirling through the air, blueberry pancakes nanny look afters Miki’s golden heart breakfast, I wonder I wonder as I look at the big streets the passing people quicker and louder faster than anywhere i have been before, Vips with silver card free coffee in wood panel room, walking in a museum 8 blocks long looking at gathered bones of ancient beasts dinosaurs artifacts thousands of people walk in wonder, we sit in the space machine internal new age projector showing space in 3d magic shooting stars indoors universe tales wide eyed imagination fired off possibilities, while rasher he got some sleep, live butterflies from all the continents in air controlled room fly around my head colours so vivid flapping around me alive inside, Brooklyn cocktails Japanese dinners frat boys behind me filth mouth chatter put me off my dinner, wandering studio robotics clever friend big bold imagination success proud moments, ubering new years wandering house of yes swan lake the seizure across the floor the blood line of flatline movements in a pattern thats never been seen before doc martens harsh feet flatley's cousin new york times invader Jameson whiskey breath and laughter in the bogger accent who is it your talking to I have no cares for front page or back page or event page or whats hip happening im here ta me anseo twiddley fucken diddley hoodley oirish, flash flash flash don't put my picture in the paper im in the Irish mafia, new years new cheers bare ass gold painted body g-string clad lunatic oooo your Irish I love the Irish, Robots coming in at all angles lighting up the view, podium dancers and t rex heads swinging from the ceiling posers chancers and dancers and me, 3000.. 4000.. millions contained in the greater mass of happenings in the big bold world of wonders New York city nightlife bodies swaying styling hip operations to a beat of a 90's tune. ubered out a there into a fancy house where barely understood rambling accent misheard's on a drunken tongue hieroglyphics occurred. wondering endlessly if the cluchie could ever get cultured in the yogurt brain of the world, blue noted next day chris botti trumpetered out I became micheal flatleys niece erin jokes got misheard, do you guys have black guys in Ireland?... weird lines in strange places new yorker has never got out or used google, next day met museum Egypt 3000 year old mummies full pyramids and sphinx, Dali hockney all the bais famous masters only ever seen in a book now on walls in my present or me in theirs all the famous wans pure got wide eyed Picasso, otto dix, norman rockwells soft gentle style, george tooker took my breath away with his peeping eyes, guggyheim china has come to town ai wei wei and the burning rats, king penguins painted a circle of wanders brought me round more old masters more views than my eyes could process, awake and dreaming live everyday like its you’re birthday wide open views falling asunder under jet lag snots

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Generation Y- Why? work in process

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New york city eh

new york city eh? I come from a wild place on the west coast of ireland where the wind screams and roars and the waves beat down the edge of earth waving frantically beating tearing and ripping the edges away into the sea clawing back, the valleys nestle birds sitting shouting loud loud loud tunes and bovine creatures forget and create sitcom chatter all day mooooooo out loud away in a field and the rain beats on a tin roof and i am home here in this place away from internet low and behold gasp and.... phone signal oh mother of divine woooha gosh  darn how does one live, well by looking forward and back and reading reports in learned books subject matter all around in the library a small ram shackle box room with loads of mills and boon’s a an erotic novel in a more soft than a modern day 50 shade of grey way. anthropology and linguistics guided self to study why we are the way we are and why we say the things we say and how we say the things we say in accents and bubbles and rural and city and landscape and country and culture who are we really? 

How does one cluchie see new york city?

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cognitive dissonance - too poetic a description

Its to not sound like the ventriloquist in the making with this thesis, I hold the writers tension, with is it my view? or their view? and how can I not sound like a wooden board with a pole up ones hole reciting the alphabet back like a learned 5 year old. Cognitive dissonance is like like setting off to the arctic in a currach being delighted with life full of beans for the journey, then realizing that your not Tom Crean the Irish arctic explorer half way through and your vessel is not fit for purpose, then feeling ill prepared and scared. basically your still on your merry way but you now hold tension about the journey. your outa wack with the world the beats got no harmony to it, one leg is fifty foot longer than the other, creating uneven and jittery forwards. But what the fuck am I trying to say well basically the world feels like Rapunzel with a shaved head high up in a tower without any hope of rescue. we’ve penned ourselves fucking in

https://soundcloud.com/outwardssounds/a-trip-down-memory-laney-cognitive-dissonance-too-poetic-a-description

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A Trip down memory laney-St paddy and the snacks

One day st paddy sat down and ate aload of snacks he got carried away and ate a whole 12 pack of snacks, then he went down to supervalu and bought some more and ate them he continued to do this for several weeks months and years until he had sucked all of the snacks in Ireland dry.

and that is the story of Capitalism

st paddy and the snacks

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ArtHt Hole (2017)