Ghosts, Sandymount

A crepuscular scurry again, out along Sandymount Strand, where I pulled over to the side of the road to photograph a view of the prom which I hadn't noted before: the way those faux-Victorian lamps stand out singularly against the broadness of the horizon, little drops of illumination echoing the other spots and specks of light: a ship on the horizon, the embery glow of Howth Head, pulse of the lighthouse, etc.

I decided to pull into the carpark and use the tripod, and that's where I noticed this large container and a little pile of pale sandbags: a curious tableau/stage, set for passers by which I took as they came, very infrequently. They hardly seemed to notice the weirdo with the large camera. I heard one of them minutes before he made his appearance: a man on a bicycle who kept shouting incoherent execrations, curses or whatever, jabs at the relative silence of the traffic-shushed prom. Tourette's perhaps, or just someone who (remembering the film Network) is mad as Hell and can't take it any more.

I could have used the flash but I decided to let them be what they were: passing blobs of ectoplasmic smear, a fifth of a second long.