"My Goodness! My Guinness!"

Guinness is sweeter here, still dark but much more smooth. I have to choke it down at bars in the U.S.--actually, I just refuse to drink it altogether. But it's gorgeous here, more like a meal that you sit down to and enjoy for for hours, often only having one extra helping or so. Clarenbridge Oyster Festival is an annual tradition in Ireland. One will pay an entrance fee of around 100 euro and can spend the entire day eating as much seafood and consuming as much Guinness as he can handle. Typically the temptation is to drink pint after pint so as to get his money's worth, but apparently this isn't the way to go about it. Eammon, my tour guide, says that one should sip the first pint, making it last up to an hour, and allow the drink to line the inside of your stomach. "After that, you're grand." He claims that a single person can consume 35-40 pints of Guinness if he commits to this strategy. The entire bus of tourists gasped in amazement. I'm pretty sure Eammon knows this from experience...

It's no secret that the Irish take their drink seriously. When it comes to coffee, they dump vast amounts of milk and sugar and couldn't care less about the quality. In general, the Irish care more about quantity than quality, and they've inherited some of the American sizes (still waiting on "Big Gulps," though "Supersize" and "Triple Angus" have made their way here). But when it comes to the spirits, they demand both quantity and quality, beer and whiskey being their areas of expertise.

The pub scene is classic here, and in smaller towns, offers a sense of nostalgia. An Irish lad I know (Dave) claims the only thing good about the cold Irish weather, is that it beckons the community into the pups. Here, they escape the wind and the rain, and allow drink and fellowship to warm their chilled bodies. "Oh! That's the best-like. It's so cozy-like. Ya know?"

I respect the traditional pup, the kind I sat in all evening during a short stay in Dingle. Irish folk music floating around a casual crowd, a friendly bartender who pours a good pint and keeps the conversation going...

Unfortunately, I am studying in Cork, a larger college town in Ireland that has lost much of it's traditional beauty. Instead, they've been taken over by American businesses and loads of exchange students; the clubs have taken over. Inside these, one can't tell whether he is in Ireland or America. To Irish students this is a good thing (as they seem to express a huge desire to go to the States), but to someone attempting to experience a different culture from her own, it was a bit disappointing. There are still some pretty old fashioned places scattered about Cork, but by the time I found them, I had given up on drinking.

Currently, I am about to hit the 3-month mark, meaning I only indulged for about 1 month before needing to stop. I didn't feel safe or under control. I was spending too many euros and leaving the bars unsatisfied. As I prepare to go home, I know many will expect crazy stories from the Irish pub scene (I feel that many people have built up this vision of the typical Irish drinker, and they're probably pretty accurate), but I won't have many to tell. In one sense, I look back and feel as though I missed out on some opportunities to engage with the culture, but thats not what this trip of mine was entirely about. I sacrificed some good fun (slightly ridiculous and risky at times) so that I could test my character and respect myself more. To a certain extent, this trip has showed me that I am capable of growing up, committing myself to resistance and feeling good about my achievement. Maybe 3 months isn't that impressive, but it's my personal accomplishment, and I don't regret any of the "missing out" that may have happened. I still speak fondly of the traditional Irish pup, and I'll never be satisfied with a Guinness in the States because I know now that it doesn't travel well and that it tastes so much better in its home country.

P.S. My last night in Ireland officially makes it 3 months of "going without." I might have a pint to celebrate, but haven't decided if that's just too much of a contradiction...

Ready or Not, Here I Come...

Haven’t written in awhile—haven’t been inspired to. I need to write about Barcelona and London, but don’t feel up to the task quite yet. Eventually, though.

My countdown widget says that I have exactly 11 days, 17 hours, 8 minutes, and 8 seconds as I begin writing this. It’s hard to believe that my time here is almost finished. The first night I spent in Ireland was intimidating, to say the least. I looked at the twin bed in my new flat and started crying. How could this be home? Back then, four months seemed like a lifetime, and I wasn’t quite sure what I had gotten myself into. But here I am, reclining in a bed that has taken my shape and realizing that I have truly come to love this place. I suppose the beginning stages of reflection are just starting to settle in.

I don’t know if I can honestly articulate why I decided to leave the States and study in Ireland. Part of me believes I signed up for it “just because” and went along with the plan until, before I knew it, I had packed a giant suitcase and boarded the plane. Now that the experience is almost over, I recognize just how much this somewhat “four-month-long holiday” meant to me. It has been a break from routine, a place for discovery, and a time for growing up. I can’t tell you how I’ve changed exactly, but I imagine the ways in which this experience has influenced me will continue to reveal themselves even long after I have returned, probably during moments when I least expect them to.

I’m going to start packing next week. I’ll turn in final papers and take pictures of everything in Cork that I know I’ll want to remember. Most of those will be things that I pass on a daily basis—things I hardly even notice anymore. The three skylights placed throughout the apartment, the two orange couches in our living room; unofficially, one is hers and one is mine. I pass a dark stairwell and a purple doorway on my walk to church every Sunday. I might miss the little black and white dog that hangs around Gratton Street, and the cute elderly man who walks his dog everyday across campus. The English Market and Café Depeche. If I have not already written about them, I hope to “photo document” these things and revisit their affect at a later date.

Home brings seemingly less opportunities for foreign travel as I will find myself tied down to a job and school. I’m scared to go back mostly because I am scared of not moving. If anything, I hope to remember how a lifestyle of freedom tasted and try my hardest to weave it into the realistic life that is waiting for me. Find that balance of American efficiency and Irish patience, and find ways to truly enjoy living no matter where I am. Although I am returning to obligations and a tight schedule, I am most importantly returning to the people who give my life meaning. Engaging in those relationships once again is what kept me from extending my time here an extra semester. I love them even more now that I know what it is like to be far away from them. The disconnection between us, that is due to the Atlantic Ocean and the six-hour time difference, will be over soon enough—over in 11 days, 16 hours, 9 minutes, and 35 seconds. I think I am ready.

o

_...i sometimes wonder when
___our circle became a spiral
_____and when that
_____spiral will reach
______its lowest point
_________to end
__________us.

Yes.

Four cups of black coffee everyday,
Four times to sip slowly and remember
Us.
You’re still addicted to me,
Am I still addicted to you?

Yes.
Well, I cannot seem to get away.
And though I tried
One summer,
I could not shake your comfort
Or the longing for that purple fleece.

You gave me the Shins and Brushfire artists
So I listen and fall back
Into those same coffee memories and cream-colored skirt.
First flecks of snow--
As you watch me get ready.
I thought you fell in love with me
To the sound of “Butterfly,”
But I cannot be sure.

It may have taken me longer,
Until I got used to breakfast living.
However,
Four fall seasons later and I am there now,
Unable to forget the smell of French toast,
Or the feel of a Wellsburg Valentines Day.
Crunchy leaves remind
Of innocent first kisses,
And discovering the merry-go-round.

Me.
And you.
“Better Together”
(Most of the time).
Yet can we both believe it
Simultaneously?

Today,
I choose to sip black coffee,
At the same time as you,
Hoping the miles won’t seem so far,
And that you will say decide to say,
“Yes.”

Foolish Prints

Sometimes I envision things before I do them, imagine they go poorly, and then manipulate the situation so that the scene I saw earlier actually becomes my direct reality. This morning I saw myself accidentally spilling too much sugar on my cereal. Yet when I did turn the shaker upside down, the perfect amount sprinkled the surface. Consequently, I chose not to stop there. For some odd reason (one I am exploring right now), I continued to pour until I had a mountain of sugar atop the small pile of grainy flakes and a mess to clean up. The scene of disorder on the counter was an exact replica of the picture I had seen in my mind only moments before. It is as though I actually needed the original outcome to occur, but by deliberate force rather than accident. While writing in my journal earlier, I found myself unsure about whether I needed a comma or a semicolon after a particular phrase so I left it at a comma. I went back to place a dot above the mark, but found my pen unable to manage the task. Still unsure about my decision, I should have just left the punctuation alone, but I continued pressing and dotting until the black spot appeared. A simple demonstration of my indecision, and then my natural inclination to push limits. This is how I end up in foolish positions. I say to myself, “It would really suck if I got my shoes wet,” yet I am not satisfied to move away from the lapping waves until one has licked my feet, leaving my shoes squishy and uncomfortable. I somehow need to test the universe, makes sure I am not beyond any natural laws, and consequently, walk away feeling like an idiot because I just could not force myself to withdraw my feet in time. My fears. My uneasiness. They have to prove true before I am able to move forward. Am I alone in this, or do others experience moments like this as well? I mean, I know for a fact that if I hold the button down long enough, the soda will overflow my plastic cup and spill down the sides. But this does not keep me from, every once in awhile, resisting the reflex to stop on time and indulge in the brimming cup. I have to make the overflow happen, only to prove true something I already know. The outside of my cup is sticky as a result—maybe to remind me that I am ridiculous for messing up on purpose. I often wonder if this is some sort of disorder or if everyone else finds themselves casually experiencing these things as well?

Of course I do find the strength to overcome these bizarre, seemingly “natural” responses when I know it could be dangerous. I see myself falling down the stairs, slipping on the treadmill, or accidentally stepping in front of a car and getting smashed to pieces. I manage to resist the temptation to make these types of “premonitions” come true. In fact, I usually treat these as superstitions and proceed with caution. It can never hurt to play it safe, right?

I guess I just wonder why I seem to have the subconscious desire to test the trivial things, attempt to control my immediate future, and end up feeling like a fool. Any thoughts?

I Forgot to How to Love

I've been relatively quiet and "unopinionated" for some time now--a lot more than I used to be. I think I have just been worried about pissing people off. My latest entry did just this, and I have removed it. I offer no apology for my opinion, but I don't think I should have shared it like I did. I lost focus, and this page is supposed to be about creative expression, not judgment. I do apologize for making anyone feel unloved, unaccepted, or judged. I am sorry.

Lamentations of a Lukewarm Writer

I usually feel things deeply at the very beginning of my day, or during the late close of it. Either polar portion of the day is opportune for the recording of my thoughts, as they are too tired to be filtered. They offer honesty and insight and somewhat overdramatic emotions. In the morning, my emotions are tender and sensitive, usually resulting in unreliable streams of thought. On some mornings, I am more than happy to greet the early sunrise. I exhale patiently, thanking God for the very essence of this waking moment. I am excited to live this day. Of course there are groggy days when my thoughts are overcast and I am unable to complete any simple sentence passing through my head. I drift somewhere between comfort and despair in the early loneliness. Late night thoughts are always the “long-time-coming” type. The deeply buried feelings finally surface and I am forced to contemplate my situation, although I rarely arrive upon any definite conclusion. I chew on indecision for a late night snack, digest the day’s happenings, and eventually go to sleep on a full stomach. It does, however, take slowly ticking time for my mind to turn off. I suppose these thoughts grow bored and transcend into the bizarre dream world. They only sort of make sense.
The problem with early morning thinking and late night reflection is that during these times, I am resistant to writing things down. It is not a result of laziness, but rather a terrible fear that at the every moment I begin to record, the moment itself will vanish and I will be left with a mind vacant of any inspiration at all. Acknowledge that I am getting somewhere, and it’s all over then. I’m as useless as an adolescent boy caught up in the latest video game. Throughout the day, I am too busy—too loud to even attempt writing a piece. Instead, I jot down passing thoughts occurring throughout my activities, hoping I will eventually return to them on some quiet evening when I am both capable of dissecting the very potential of that thought. Perhaps something worth creative exploration will surface. Perhaps not. So when do I write? I don’t. I mean, I haven’t done much in the past month. I am a lukewarm writer. I suppose I am simply being a winy and defiant student who is all too eager to offer lame excuses for lack of productivity. But I must find my balance between seized moments of passion and trained discipline if I am to continue.

I welcome any advice.

City Stagnant

Today I hit the wall of routine. It took considerable effort to notice the world happening around me as I walked my usual path to class, instead of naturally looking down at my shoes and shuffling to songs on my ipod. I walk to the gym. I shop for groceries. I wake up around the same time every morning, and I’ve figured out my weekly television schedule. Pictures are no longer snapped as easily, for my role as a tourist is lost. I’ve stopped writing, stopped observing; stopped worshipping the experience of this city. It’s an obvious realization, but something I never thought would happen. After time, it all grows old. I suppose that wherever one goes, he brings his habits along with him. I shampoo and then condition and then shave. I blow my nose every night before I go to bed, and again in the morning. It’s a typical thing for me to wake up exactly seven minutes before my alarm is scheduled to ring. In one sense, it is these routines that keep me together; they offer comfort and sanity, even a feeling of home when I am in a faraway country. But it is this complacency that stifles the creative mind. Timetables and the seemingly predetermined whereabouts that guide me through the day. We often use activities to mark significance; action moves time along. I only wish I could live my life in a way that would prove to be an exception to this rule.
Of course there are certainly things that never cease to take me by surprise; like the illuminated TK Maxx sign just a few streets over, or the phenomenon of needing to wear sunglasses while holding an open umbrella. Sunshine rain is a beautiful contradiction in life, but nonetheless a reality here in Ireland.
There are plenty of new places to explore, cities everywhere that would most certainly prove to be enlightening destinations. But I have lost my fervor for travel. Ireland isn’t quite home, but I feel I am somewhat of a comfortable resident. I even managed to pick up a part time job here. The idle hours were creeping under my skin and I had to do something about it. I haven’t found the classes here to be all that intellectually stimulating and had to seek education elsewhere. There is a precise formula for lattes, and it’s only a matter of time before I familiarize myself with daily regulars. They do the exact thing I fear: live each day the same way.
I thought I could escape the monotonous lifestyle, but it’s hanging off my balcony, overlooking the city. I wonder how many more times I will push “5” on the lift to my flat, and if there are anymore new people I have yet to get acquainted with. Even planning a day trip to Blarney sounds difficult as it will disrupt my routine; how am I going to manage three days in Barcelona? There’s something so comfortable about not moving, and yet if one isn’t careful, it can lead to ruin. A stunning line in C.S. Lewis’ The Great Divorce has sat in my mind since the day I read it—somewhere around seven or eight years ago: “Stagnation, my dear boy, “Nothing is more soul-destroying than stagnation.” I fear the act of stopping, getting stuck in a rut and simply forgetting to grow. I was once infatuated with this new place, but it seems I will always have an addiction to stress and time management and espresso, causing even Ireland to lose her luster. I do hope to overcome my bout of stagnation here; I just might have to force myself to pursue safe avenues of fresh excitement.
I am not going to take my opportunity here for granted, and I just may attempt to live each day as if it is the feeling of morning. I happen to love the smell of the air pouring in my window as I first wake up. Yet I suppose that if this smell lasted the entire day, it would take away from beauty I greet at dawn. Perhaps that means commitment and routine are necessary in order that I might relish in the occasional freedom. Who knows?
I begin again tomorrow.

White Guy Thigh

I've recently taken an interest in improving my physical fitness, and have been spending time everyday working out in the facility offered for free through my university. It's a pretty impressive set up, with a fingerprint-reading system for entry and loads of machines so that it never feels over populated. However, there is one downfall to working out in a gym located in Europe, and that is the exposure of too many male thighs. I've tried at different points in my life not to be such a critical person, but the phase has never lasted and I've come to terms with the fact that I am, indeed, a judgmental human being. Thus, while I am exercising, I tend to observe most of the people mingling about and I cannot help but notice and cringe every time a man with short shorts and pale legs walks by. Given the fact that I am in Ireland and there is an over abundance of European exchange students, I spend just as much time wincing at their fashion as I do lifting weights. The typical gym apparel seen on the men here is as follows: running shoes, often times sporting either the Puma or Addidas logos, and on occasion do not have laces; visible socks, sometimes folded down neatly (I guess ankle socks haven't made it across the pond yet); shorts that are a length my conservative Christian high school wouldn't have approved of; and a polo shirt. Yes, a polo shirt accompanied with athletic shorts. I don't know how this combination came to be "gym appropriate," or even just casually acceptable, but it is. Sigh. Do they even realize how ridiculous they look? As they gaze into the mirror checking out their muscles and pumping iron, I examine their getup and try hard not to laugh.
When I walk back to my flat after a hard workout, people I pass along the street stare at my legs, not because they are attractive, but I think because they are not used to seeing someone walking around in shorts. Ireland can be pretty cold, even on a sunny day, and the only time I really see girls with exposed legs is on the weekends at the pubs where they flaunt tiny, tight skirts. In fact, when I walk home I think I might be the only girl out and about who is not wearing black tights under a skirt. The girls here dress up, and it's rare to see a female in athletic clothing, especially the kind that isn't tight-fitting. Oh well. I prefer my oversized Iowa sweatshirt and Nike running shoes, probably just as much as all the European guys must prefer their attractive gym wear.

Camping in the Shadow of Brandon

September 19-21, 2008

Disclaimer: At no point during this weekend trip did I participate in alcohol consumption or smoking of any sort. I remained the “sober judgment” of the group, and am quite glad I did so.


While the American youth worries and stresses about the men and women they will become, my new Irish friends are crammed into a car that is bursting at the seams. We have surfboards on top, tents, sleeping bags, bodies and a dog shoved inside. They roll a joint and pass it around, letting the smoke slip out of cracked windows as we snake down mountain roads. It’s a beautiful day here—the best kind that exist, and it feels almost like Spring Break. (At least that is what the guys keep shouting out the window to innocent civilians as we drive by.) For some reason I laugh each time they do so. It’s smooth and easy; it feels and smells of freedom and eternal youth. It’s a different kind of living that goes on here, one that is more…alive, if that even makes any sense at all.

Our weekend begins with the opening of a gate sporting a sign that reads, “Camping prohibited by law.” Naturally this worries me, but I trust the more experienced bunch to bring me to a safe place and so I sit quietly in the back seat while we launch the car over bumps of grass and surf through sandy paths. At moments I figure the wheels of the car will be swallowed entirely by the sand, but we somehow make it through to a spot that suits for camping. Four tents and six people; two couples and I am one of the odd ones out. Still, I do not mind pitching my own shelter, and it is actually quite a relief to have my own space. The Siberian husky we brought along is clearly in her element here, and she is freed from the leash and allowed to roam around as she pleases. Only when she needs a drink of water do we see her; I imagine she is having more than her fill of chasing rabbits and dodging the rolling tide. Our campsite is within a stone’s throw of the ocean so the air smells faintly of salt and we have the constant sound of crashing waves to make beautiful background music. Before long it is nighttime and it is the best I have been able to see the stars since I arrived here in Ireland. No city lights and no fog, just the wide open sky with a campfire and six friends sitting below. Drinks and smokes are passed around, stories and laughs are shared, and of course the guitar is brought out. I sit in silence and blink back tears as the guy sitting next to me strums hard. He throws his head back and sings his soul into the night. There are moments in life when I get embarrassed by listening to a loud voice singing untamed into the surroundings, but not tonight. Tonight I cry because I am witnessing the stripped and vulnerable center of people who have reached out to me, and I am overwhelmed by the good that I meet. It is too dark to write and viciously cold in my tent, but I fall asleep to visions caught by firelight and comforting thoughts of how it felt to learn people in such an authentic atmosphere.

I wake up close to nature and decide that “using the toilet” where there is none, is not my favorite way to begin the day. (By the close of this weekend, I am over it.) Today we are climbing Mount Brandon, the second highest point in Ireland, which sits at an elevation a little over 3,100ft. To mountain climbers this height is anything but impressive, but to a girl from Iowa who is still new to mountains at all, it is an exciting challenge. Of course before we begin our climb, we bypass a sign that reads, “No dogs allowed,” and we all laugh as our husky, Aurora, hops the fence. Our laughs turn to gasps as we realize there are sheep dotting the hillside, and there seems to be no catching her now. After a long while, her owner finally drags her up to the rest of the group and we realize we’ll have to leash her somehow. She is leashed by a rope that came attached to one of the backpacks, and then attached to a climber. Huskies are famous for pulling dogsleds so tugging a human up a small mountain is effortless for her, but extremely difficult for the unlucky passenger. It’s a humorous sight to watch—a person being pulled along by a large dog with nothing he can do about it. His legs are far apart and his arms out for balance. It’s funny and yet I feel guilty laughing when he is tugged too quickly and unexpectedly by her excitement. The climb takes us longer than it should, but we have inexperienced athletes in our group and most of them need an occasional smoke. I have yet to understand how one can smoke a cigarette or joint while attempting to do something physical. All the starting and stopping disrupts the pace I would prefer, but there’s no reason to complain. I feel that I am “just along for the ride,” so I wait patiently as they feed their addictions. We eventually lose the path and it proves difficult to summit, but it is well worth the effort. We pose for pictures next to the plain wooden cross that adorns the top, and it is even more satisfying to take a break for lunch. A ham sandwich has never tasted so good! I find the climb down to be the hardest on my knees, as it is challenging to resist slipping down loose rocks, but it could mean tumbling down the whole mountain and bringing others down with me, so I take my time. Though I believe the descent is all about focus and control, we cannot ignore the approaching darkness and must do our best to beat it.

Another night of campfire songs, and we are greeted with a morning full of waves ideal for surfing. The boys strip down to their boxers and wrap a towel around their waists. It’s actually hilarious to watch them hop up and down attempting to squeeze damp, black wetsuits over their pale Irish legs. I have come to realize that it is anything but effortless to dress for surf, especially with a suit that is somewhat wet from the day before. I decide not to take part in the water sport, but lounge in the sun instead. (They said it was “Spring Break,” right?) Before I left for Ireland, I packed a swimsuit without thinking I would ever use it, but sure enough, the country surprised me with sunshine and dolphins and surf. The trip comes to a close and in order to exit the spot we stayed, we must honk our way through lounging cattle, who lay directly in our line of fire. The lazy beasts eventually move and we are back on the road again, back to everyday life in Ireland, which is still not quite the same as being home.

Attempting a "John Synge"

John Synge is the author of The Aran Islands, a book he completed in Paris after spending three summers on Inis Meain, living among the locals. As a part of an Irish literatures course, I was given the opportunity to do exactly as he did, only many years later.


The Aran Islands at night are mere shadows in the soft wind. It is difficult to distinguish between the land and the sea when it is so dark. A flash of blue and one to echo in white declare that out there, life is still happening, even after so many have taken to their beds. Scattered orange lights dot the largest of the three islands and I can feel the breeze traveling from her direction. So still. So somber and quiet. The ideal place for meditation and peaceful thinking. Life is simple here—with the dim stars above and a maze of walls built only of stone. No garda and only one tiny pub, which has no official closing time, but shuts down after the last drunk has gone home. Understood rules and but a handful of motorized vehicles. My heart can fall asleep here, take a short nap while I recline outside a comfortable home. I’ve never been this close to the sea before, with a clear view from the dining room window and the sound of colliding waves when I hold my breath. The ocean makes different sounds that are somehow always happening. It is a living force, constantly changing and communicating. Some days she weeps and mourns alongside my quiet emotions, and on other occasions, she is there to send a smile in return. Either way, she is a woman beckoning me to pause. I feel significantly awake, as nights such as these add weight to life itself; they fuel the core of my humanity.

A light breakfast is the way to get your day going here—tea or coffee and plenty of toast with marmalade. We eat around a family table and make plans to explore the island. Oh how I adore the freedom to think and reflect! They say that it is dangerous to leave a man alone with his thoughts, but at various points in life I find it utterly essential to my sanity. Today I want to look back on my journey thus far. How is it that I actually made it to this place? How is it possible that I feel so much more alive here? I see now why so much work back home was hindering my creative expression. The routine killed me. I must remember to rest and set aside time for more writing when I return, for here it is so much easier to write, glorify my surroundings, and worship what I see. The only thing I am truly missing out on is authentic human connection with others. I am more reserved and afraid to ask questions to learn about their lives. I am bored of Americans. I so desperately want to find a lone, elderly man who has no one else to talk to, or maybe a young girl who does not know how to feel. I suppose I crave the sadness and loneliness in others, and use it to fill a void inside. Why do I desire to be their only positive connection? I am beginning to discover just how selfish I have always been.

My feet dangle off high cliffs of gray rock, with the ocean surging below. Each wave from the blue expansion sprays over smooth, weathered stones, swirling froth forwards and then backwards. There is an uneven pattern to the crashes, a fluid rhythm with different sized waves. Teetering and swaying, the dance of the ocean is mesmerizing.

Each rock I step on is surrounded by a tiny pool of still rainwater. I am making my way over a landscape of small islands. Somewhere behind me I hear a trickle of water that is traveling back to the sea. I am hearing a piece of the great circle—the cycle nature uses to take care of itself. It was created to be like this: the sea to reflect the color of the sky, and shadows resting under each friendly cloud.
I live in Iowa and have not once felt this close to the earth before. Ivy and blackberries crawl and conceal stonewalls. From the highest point, one can see marked and unmarked territory—a brown cow behind one gate, sheep behind another, and a lonely donkey behind yet another. Currently I sit a top the walls of a fort preserved from the pagan days, somewhere between the fourth and fifth centuries. Have I ever touched something so ancient before? It is entirely authentic, built with hands from an age I can hardly imagine. This fort is a simple construction of rough rock and lookout points set upon a high hill. I can see the Cliffs of Moher from here; they cast a shadow behind the thin sheet of ocean fog just across the way. Hammering and one dog barking, the far away voices of children, occasional buzz of a fly, and always the sound of the rolling waves. I wonder if I am sitting in the very same place Synge did. At the very center of the island you are still not far away from the sea. Everything about here breathes poetry, and I am tempted to try my hand at it. Another day.

Bookish

A book may hold portraits of an artist’s work, and a book in its simplest form is the artwork of any given author, but the material of a book may also be used to create new art that expresses diverse ideas and is open for interpretation. The Glucksman Gallery on campus celebrates this with a display entitled, “Bookish: When Books Become Art,” and as I listened to the curator explain the different pieces, a completely new world unfolded before me. I was able to justify my innate attraction to books and open my mind to a more creative way of examining them. I was able to sit on a bench for a short period of time and reflect on what I saw. This is what came out:

Something completely unique. Brilliant actually, and quite able to help me justify my love for books. What do they stand for? How do they survive? An old man films his thick country boots kicking a book full of outdated political ideas across the square and the pages flutter about the sidewalk. The binding cannot keep the pages together; what is he saying about the stronghold of this theory? A curious artist plucks love notes and illegible post-it’s from the pages of borrowed material. Tags from brand new shirts, receipts, and ticket stubs litter the library, but are hidden within the two covers of so many books. Sit down in your area library and flip through the pages, see what sort of archeological discoveries are dug up. What can one book carry to the next reader? A book is a vessel of knowledge and ideas. It carries germs and footnotes, garbage and timeless treasures. It is a symbol—colorful artwork, and a bird fluttering over any certain landscape. The book is a constant that is always changing—dirty laundry and a list of quotations. It is a canvas meant to make a beautiful backdrop or stamp a lasting image behind one’s eyelids. Books are a common display so often overlooked by the everyday admirer. Any given one can show an artists work, but why do they insist on producing in a page-to-page format?
A book may also manifest into a piece of art by itself, making all sorts of statements about humanity and materialism. They can build walls and stop floods, even create a compass for which one can use to discover the world. The young red book is quite able to socialize with the old wrinkled one she is positioned so pleasantly against on your bookshelf. In fact all the books chat among themselves and with the model airplane on display. Lines of importance and famous quotations are collaged together and seem quite ridiculous without the encompassing context. Pages of encyclopedias are transposed on top of one another and what we see is merely a smudge—a blur of information that must be separate, yet bound in order to make any sense at all. Never in my life did I see a display so focused on the ironies of books and the thoughts that created them. I feel my passion is more rounded after seeing this display, and I understand why I think books are so beautiful now.

An Uncomfortable Adventure

Today was an adventure—a stretch actually. It required saying, “yes” to wet feet and jagged rocks, and saying, “no” to my usual amount of comfort and casual safety. The island we made our way towards is legitimate in definition, yet when the tide sinks to a low enough level it extends approximately one hour’s time freedom to approach by foot rather than swim. Overlooking reservations, I accepted the rugged man’s hand and traced his steps carefully to begin our journey over a seemingly endless field of slick stones covered in sea kelp and premature mussels. He paused often to point out a living sea anemone and some sort of barnacle-looking creature, but in the presence of his knowledge and handsome confidence, I found myself completely outside of my element.

The distinct fish scent and sea salt air begins to wrap itself around my faded t-shirt and aggressively breeze through my hair. I take note of my rather old runners, knowing they will soon be even dirtier, and I am finding the discomfort to be rather taxing. It will all be worth it once we get there. The landscape we cross is an underwater world exposed for a brief period of time to the cool Irish atmosphere. I try hard not to think about the hundreds of mini mussels I have crushed beneath my shoes in our short trip to the other side, and my guide reminds me to focus on the island as our destination. He is also sure to caution me about taking abrupt, confident steps. I must remember that seaweed is slippery, although falling seems inevitable.

I haven’t been the “out-of-doors-type” girl for quite some time now. As a kid, I would run wildly through cornfields and build forts from any raw material at hand. My childhood consisted largely of pretend Native American names and mud pies, a head full of neglected hair and feet calloused enough to race across gravel roads. But then I discovered books, found I had a studious calling within, and forgot to spend all of my time outside. Skills that could have been acquired over all those lost years may have come in handy today, for I was struggling to keep up. An inexperienced and bashful girl, I did not want my expert guide to watch as I struggled to maintain solid footing. I am almost out of breath, but I recognize we are quite close to our green-colored oasis. Just don’t think about the fact that we have to make our way back still…

We manage to make it, though not at all easily.

I’m not quite sure I understood what “trudging” truly meant until I found myself wading awkwardly through thick, springy grass. The grass acted as a sponge to each weighted step, swallowing our jeans to the knees and slowing our reflexes. But this part of the journey should be taken at a lesser pace anyway. I turn to see the coastline, count the colorful houses that dot the shore, and acknowledge what we accomplished. The rock bridge we crossed appears as a solid dark mass, and from our new height, it is impossible to distinguish the individual toilsome stones and sand formations we scaled on our way here. Seagulls swoop a little too close for comfort and a friendly fishing boat passes before us. A part of me wants to lie down in the tall grass and disappear entirely from the tour guide’s sight—I could rest here for hours just smelling the waves and listening to the grey colored clouds pass over my head.

But the tide is rising and we must race against the water to make it to shore. The steps backwards are more difficult and I am forced to plunge my foot into swirling puddles that are filling much to quickly. I can feel the froth in between my toes and I worry that living things might have taken residence against my feet. Another thirty minutes and we may have been stranded for a long while. My guide assures me that I did well, though every time he does, my self-esteem shrinks a tiny bit more. He also continues to tell me that he finds it strange I have only been to the ocean on three other occasions prior to this. It’s extremely difficult for me to help him understand that I am from Iowa; our state’s name and location apparently means very little to this particular Irishman.

I couldn’t tell you the name of the island or the name of the coastal town we visited earlier. I can show you little artifacts I collected along the way—a couple of stones and numerous seashells. My shoes are filled with sand and smell like water, but I figure this only adds to their story. I am unable to recall most of the places we saw today and I doubt I could recite all of the history, but I can tell you what I discovered. Today I learned how to be quiet in a small harbor town that is still mourning the sinking of the Titanic. I learned that holding back in the face of opportunity is rarely worth it at all, and taking a chance is a reward in and of itself. With soaked socks and sore legs, I walk away with the solid accomplishment of making it across, and of course, a series of snapshots for memory’s sake.

A Good Day.

The same music sounds different here. It lifts my step a little bit higher and causes me to notice brighter lights that illuminate small shop windows while casting strange shadows upon the river below. The language spoken here is slower, but the street life pace is quicker than I am used to. St. Patrick’s Street is bustling with shoppers and sidewalk musicians, and everything is pushed far too close together. I feel that I am always in the way of locals, and the apologies I offer are endless. Still, the Irish seem to be a patient breed.
I cannot look away from the young couple; the girl pressed hard against the bus stop and the eager boy passionately kissing her neck. They don’t seem to have a care in the world. How can one get used to the unforgiving traffic and fresh bloody meat displayed in the window of butcher shops? I am unable to read the clouds here, but whether rain or shine, every city door is bold and bright, beckoning visitors to try knocking. I have been here for two days and learned that behind every weathered face is a kind-hearted Irishman who is more than willing to point me in the right direction.
I miss all of those I left at home, but I’ll admit: today was a good day. It was a day of discovering how to shop at an Irish grocery store and a day spent learning all the shapes, forms, and sizes the euro comes in. Today I ordered an espresso from somewhere other than Starbucks, and it was today when I realized that sections of my college campus actually resemble a medieval castle. I think I am actually beginning to love Ireland. Who could ask for a better day?

The Act of Zombie-ing

(this is an old essay i wrote...i apologize for being both depressing and over dramatic)
I am starving myself of sleep and I know of others who do the same. We deprive ourselves of rest so that we may zombie our way through this world—bypass feeling and only stagger beyond those truly deep things we should confront. I enjoy the feeling of being physically drained. I give a blank stare in class, forgetting to blink and all the while thinking on all things, except what he is teaching. I find myself perfectly content with being unable to arrive upon even some sorry excuse for a state of happiness. I am also entirely unable to feel the slightest bit of sadness. Instead, I feel nothing but tired.
I crave apathy. Is it possible to actually care about apathy? I happen to think so.
It doesn’t take much effort really. I take my journal to a diner and indulge in an entire pot of coffee that costs an amount just shy of two whole dollars. This reminds me—I have calculated that greater than half of all the things I consume in one day are laced with caffeine, thus making it more and more difficult for me to slow down or even close my eyes. Wait. I take that back. I take most things rather slowly these days. I don’t sleep, but I am getting better at sitting and staring. Sometimes I get the feeling that others assume I am in some sort of crazy trance, and I think that if they ever ask, I’d tell them their assumptions were correct. Is it acceptable to be pursuing a deliberate state of dried up existence? I am quite conscious of what I am doing to myself.
The lack of sleep causes the glands in my throat to grow daily, or maybe this is a result of the increasing amount of cigarettes I smoke throughout the day. Either way, I can feel myself getting sick. I am flushing my health down the toilet only so that I can avoid feeling. My other methods of staying awake involve finding someone new to spend all hours of the night talking to. We do this over a bottle of gin accompanied by a splash here and there of tonic. Sometimes there is a movie playing, but we have been known to sit and stare at the menu screen, listening to that same minute of a song looping over and over and over again. It seems to fill in the spaces of the background quite nicely. A few other times there has been a visualizer on screen, but this is only because my new-found amusement happens to be a religious pothead. After literary conversations, misunderstandings, awkward silences, both the avoidance of eye contact and extensive staring contests; I finally look at the clock and discover that it is early morning. At this point, I can politely excuse myself out into the cold, drive home and find myself unable once again to fall asleep even after I crawl into my bed exhausted. My mind is racing, thinking of the day’s events, though I have decided that I have become all too familiar with such bizarre happenings. So much so, that nothing phases me anymore. This could be the result of the frequency of events, or it could just be my lack of sleep. Either way, one only leads to the other and so there I am—sleepwalking through my Tuesday again. Although I have gotten quite used to this tired feeling, I do find myself scared that I will all of a sudden fall off the face of this planet, or at least get to the point where my I take a face plant onto all of my bad habits. I think I am fading slowly, but what if the process suddenly picks up speed? What if I end up smoking just one too many menthol cigarettes and my lungs actually do crystallize, just as they have always cautioned me about? Even the passing of this thought causes me to realize that I am merely a cowardly tool of society and the idea of productivity, and that I will never be able to commit fully to one thing, not even this progressive self-destruction through sleep deprivation.
I have been tempted to blame my disconnection on the depression I feel inside.
I often wonder if everyone is simply fooling themselves into actually enjoying it all. Half of the time I believe that they are genuinely glad. And yet I wonder, “How could I have possibly been left out of the happy mix?” What have they discovered that I have not? I think I prefer to sit in the corner and assume that they are all faking it, maybe even taking drugs in order to tolerate their boss and force a satisfactory smile.
I think a vast majority of the American population is sleepwalking through their Mondays and Tuesdays and Wednesdays and Thursdays and then spending the weekends hung over. It is downright depressing that we are so content not to feel anything extreme—we prefer a dreamy trance in pursuit of emotionless causes. We do as we are told. We drink too much coffee and take way too many painkillers just to get by. The girl sitting next to you takes a hit in the bathroom so that she can stay caught up, even though it gives her nightmares.
When did we stop waking up to the smell of brewed coffee and replace it with an expensive version of the latte packed with giant proportions of concentrated espresso? When was the last time we paused long enough to study the detail of something we pass on a daily basis? We must break our habits of racing the clock. We must learn to live life as Robert James Waller claims an Iowan would, not as a New Yorker. Cornfields have always made for a better backdrop than skylines anyway. I figure that by this period in history, we should all be striving to live life at the pace of a recently retired man; this might just be slow enough for us to actually recognize the things we are passing by too quickly on the daily train before we clock into our more than full-time job.
I pause and remember, entertaining the idea of returning to more patient times, and then I laugh out loud as I change everything already written from “you” to “us.” My neighbor waves and I smile back and we both take another sip of our coffee.

08.19

I think of long ago home whenever I wade through lapping waves of tumbleweed overgrowth, when I graze my hand over the tall weeds I once mistook for flowers and picked for my mother. I am not afraid to push my nose against the itchy blooms, swallow up the sweet pollen and remember the days of my innocence. Smell the small white house misplaced in the middle of three cornfields while the cattails chase thoughts of farm dogs and speckled robin eggs—of sparklers on the fourth of July and a jar full of expired lightning bugs. I never meant to let them die. Sometimes the nights utter nothing but still salutations to the past and a quiet allowance for hope. The smells are perhaps the most consistent thing about living in the country.

But I left home to live in town, and only when I am not paying any attention whatsoever, does the sweet perfume of lazy summer drift in and steal me away to a place closer to where I already am—to where I already have been. Lost thought moments define the little girl inside of me, and only when I stop to watch the storm clouds wrestle and catch cold raindrops on my tongue, do I find her again.

Of course sometimes I wonder why she still exists.

They say that Ireland is composed of lush countryside—lush with the overwhelming color spectrum green. I am so scared to be more than one hour away from the comfort smells of growing up. It will take much more than an hour-long evening drive to make it back... Yet maybe even more so, I am actually terrified to love the sights and scents of this foreign place more than I do my home. I am afraid to let go. And although I awake to the call of adventure, it is shelter and memory and eventually finding a place to call “home,” that inspire me.

I sit here alone in emotional preparation—with the daunting feeling that accompanies the approaching four month situation of assimilation I am about to embrace. It is a harsh realization that I will be without those I love nestled close by. But it is too late to be kept here, and at the very moment I board that plane, may I already begin to meet characters that might add to my story; may I find both the desire and the means to accomplish more writing; may I quiet my heart once again before the Lord. Perhaps I am anticipating too much—perhaps not nearly enough at all. No matter how it is, nothing can hide that I simply do not know what this excursion holds. With so many expectations and not a single clue at all, I will greet the beauty of opportunity and hopefully grow myself into a person better able to love.

Counting down the days until August 19…

Streamed Vodka Sentencing

It is a giant chasm filled with the void amusement of this world and all trivial matters it brings. Perhaps I should not have such a bleak outlook on it all, but I want to flutter my wings with purpose, fling myself off a cliff and welcome the feeling of a cool breeze pressing against my face. It feels nice swimming through the possibility of mattering. My goal is to walk through this life and be guiltless--floating inches above solid grass, bending not even a single blade for fear of harming a fellow creature. The freedom stars and melted ice cube petals will welcome me to a place of organic dwelling. Some day soon I will paddle through lapping waves of soft, beautiful sea kelp and escape this moment of carbonation and candy wrappers set on fire--of false sensations of passion and incredibly fake jewelry. I stare into the amber syrups of my drink and long to take a dip. They don't need me here on shore, sitting on the rim of dishonesty, bad weather, and bubblegum colored socks. I do not know how much longer I will survive as a fraud. The sharks keep feeding me shots and ask me to join in on a game of billiards. I have nothing else to do but dream so I always consent, for I am secretly hoping to stumble into something authentic.

The creative juices are flowing now, and I can only wish to be squeezed like an over-ripe orange...perhaps I will burst with tangerine flavor and drip molecules of nutrition, offering a fresh start to a new day. The bubbles fill my cup, float to the top, and pop with microscopic splashes spitting on my cheek and stabbing me in the eye. I am lost in hyper-sensitivity, drifting further into dimensions removed from familiarity. Being alone isn't as painful as one might think and as I sit here at the bar in solitude, I can sense the worn-out girls and over-compensating boys quietly saluting my facade of independence. For a split second I agree with them...and then I make faulty eye contact and trip over my own misjudgment. How long can I sit here so exposed?

I can paint my own dream and discover something new about where I can create: the colors, smells, and emotions. I don't want to belong to some place stationary because I am deeply terrified of landing. What if I look around and realize I am truly all alone--or worse, what if I break the surface and find that there are people who care about me more than I could ever do for myself or for them? What if I am incapable of loving? I feel paralyzed, stuck in sadness and dirty laundry. I want to swallow the bar whole, consume all the corruption and misunderstood miracles. Everyone here has significance to the people closest and for tonight, and this night only, they are each superheroes and geniuses, famous people who are going to conquer the world. Why can't we all be caught dwelling in this sink filled with soap scum and possibility? We are all capable of loving and this is what gives us weight--love is what attaches us to gravity; it makes us cry and keeps us close to the core of God-created existence. We sunbathe and skip across parking lots. We laugh and tear up in the same sentence, tripping over name tags and polite introductions. I am thinking of magnets sticking to metal objects that do not matter. And how might we escape?

Trains are crashing into each other, de-railing and threatening to throw off the balance of this world. Sip the gin and tonic to watch the lime pulp particles swirl about the glass and press themselves against the frozen chamber. I want to be alone. The setting itself no longer matters, just the unfamiliarity of the people around me and how comfortable the anonymous make me feel. Call me odd and smoky, but the white roses of thought are all that matter now. I am trudging through wet clouds in green rubber boots hoping to float to the top, and knowing all along that I will never make it there. I can twist and kick and tango up here in a diet coke world of dreamy reality, although chipped nails and a broken pen, smudged words and a dead fly remind me of how much I value imperfection. I must descend from the mountains now, and leave the frost and streaming thoughts behind in order to soak up the musical vodka.