(Dug this up from awhile ago.)
They say that one decision can change your life. One choice affects the next one, which proceeds to control the next and so forth. All conscious, even the subconscious, choices we make seem to be interconnected, linked to one another and guiding our direction. Who can judge if there are certain things that which would have happened regardless of which door we decided to take that morning? Person A is hit and killed by a bus seemingly because he was running late that morning, waiting for the hot water to turn back on in his apartment so he could shower. Person B was the maintenance man in charge of fixing the water pipes. Person C was the nice, older lady living across the hall from Person A. She had gone for weeks enduring colder showers but finally decided to voice a complaint to the landlord one day previous. The landlord, Person D, called it in immediately because he was working hard to be the best property manager he could be. So what if the bus ran late that day or Person A decided to skip his hygienic routine and head to work on time rather than waiting? What if Person B was late? What if… It seems that if just one thing was different, Person A might still be alive. Yet all of these choices are strung together, and I doubt the action-reaction order of the world would be impossible to trace back to an original source. And I suppose it keeps on traveling. The bus accident delayed the entire bus schedule for that route, leaving Person E alone with Person F at the stop. They ended up talking for hours, dated a couple of years, wound up getting married and now live somewhere along the coast in Washington. Two things can be said; the first being that maybe the bus accident needed to happen and that this was a part of the large string of events that link people and circumstances together. The second thing is that we cannot determine what the outcome would be if one small event happened or did not. Remove one link from the chain and Person A still may have died that day, maybe in a different way, and maybe Person E and Person F would have missed their opportunity for meeting. Or perhaps they would have bumped into each other accidentally at a used bookstore that following week. Who knows? What if…? Maybe this is all just starting to resemble Stranger Than Fiction or an episode of Six Feet Under, but I simply cannot avoid these questions.
Do I believe there is a divine order to things? When I examine those things that I have labeled as “mistakes,” I often wonder how many other people they have affected, and in what ways. Was my mistake actually for the benefit of someone else? Or do I consider it a mistake because it has reinforced a chain of bad decisions in others? I suppose that either way I decide to look at it, I will always end up drowning in self-pity or seeking to console myself with some lame justification. Is this the nature of humanity or is it a habitual mindset I have developed on my own?
Returning to the United States was a difficult process for me, and continues to be, even though it has been three months since I came back. Of course I was only gone for a grand total of four months, which means my time spent away obviously had an extremely large impact on my life, and I cannot even begin to adequately explain what Ireland meant for me. My life had reached a standstill. I was bored with school, too comfortable with the everyday stresses of my job, and although I had a great group of friends, there were a few relationships I needed to escape from. I started filling out the forms a semester in advance and proceeded to make it to the required meetings and pay the subsequent fees, just in case I decided to actually take the plunge. Before I knew it, I had put in my two weeks notice, finished out my lease, and surrendered both my cell phone and my car. My parents gifted me luggage for my summer birthday and I was all set to fly out on the nineteenth day of August. Of course the first month took forever, and then after that, I was shocked at how quickly the time flew. I developed a routine and started to fit snugly into the position of “resident” rather than “tourist.” In what seemed like minutes, it was time for me to return home. I contracted bronchitis on the plane ride to Chicago, maybe from the stress and lack of quality sleep. I had been replaced at my job by someone else and ended up making last minute living arrangements with a somewhat random acquaintance. The euro had swallowed most of the dollars in my bank account, and I had to face a broken heart. I’m still struggling financially. I’ve severed a once toxic relationship and am recovering from the emotional toll it took on me. I’m on to my second job in three months and have had to ask for help on numerous occasions because I just can’t seem to keep up with the bills. In one sense, every part of me wants to return to Ireland where I was seemingly carefree, significantly less stressed. The other approach to my current circumstance causes me deep feelings of regret and resentment. Why was I so unsatisfied with my status beforehand? Why did I take my situation for granted and insist on giving it all up? The anxiety I feel now in some ways makes Ireland feel like a waste of time. When I allow stress to get the best of me, Ireland’s beauty begins to pale in my mind. I cry when I look at my present state because it is painful to live paycheck-to-paycheck and wonder if I will make it to the end of the next month. I cry because it feels as though my life will forever be dictated by anxiety. I cry because I miss the freedom I felt in Ireland, and as much as I sometimes wish I had never gone, I know my heart will always desire to go back…
So what if I had not gone? What if I was still working at Starbucks and had no knowledge of Café Depeche, the independently owned espresso joint I volunteered at while over there? Would I have discovered that my dream for life is to open a shop of my own? And what if I had not given him the opportunity to betray my trust while I was overseas? Would I have ended up in a relationship that would only result in disappointment years down the road? Who’s to say that I would not have experienced financial hardship even I would have kept my job in Cedar Falls? I begin to feel defeated, but have friends and family to remind me that worry is worthless and that hope is something I need to pursue. Though I was independent before Ireland, I am daily learning how to become interdependent with others. I am experiencing the value in asking for help. I made a list of all the things I had missed out on while studying abroad. Henry’s funeral, my best friend’s engagement, the presidential election, the announcement of my sister as homecoming queen, the list continues…
Perhaps I believe this only because it makes me feel better, or maybe I only buy into the idea because it is what I have been fed my entire life, but the fact-of-the-matter is that I do believe there is a divine order to everything. I missed out on certain things for a reason; I saw beautiful things for a different reason. I am at a low point right now because I need to grow.
What is the price of a once-in-a-lifetime experience? For me, it cost me a job, comfortable living, thousands of dollars in debt, and a few pinnacle events. It cost financial stability and certain feelings of independence. Although it is tough to say on some days, I will go ahead and state that it was worth that price. I have one life to live; one life to live where every decision affects every other decision made afterwards. Whether I like it or not, the ripple effect does exist, and I am convinced I cannot afford to allow anxiety or resentment to govern how I approach the world.
Friday, November 6, 2009
"To Cork"
Cheers!
To Sir Arthur—
Dark and stout to
Bittersweet.
His mounting head cascades her
Curvaceous figure
Of delicate transparency,
Swirling with an unmistakable
Hisss…
“Good things come to those who wait.”
So behold, the union between
Liquid and solid—
The malted top up,
And cream to flow
Over the gate
Of Saint James,
Where Guinness is still born
Today.
To Sir Arthur—
Dark and stout to
Bittersweet.
His mounting head cascades her
Curvaceous figure
Of delicate transparency,
Swirling with an unmistakable
Hisss…
“Good things come to those who wait.”
So behold, the union between
Liquid and solid—
The malted top up,
And cream to flow
Over the gate
Of Saint James,
Where Guinness is still born
Today.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Carbon Leaf Offers Lyrical Conviction
Forget about labeling them a traditional band, Carbon Leaf abandoned that image long ago when they welcomed the banjo, mandolin, stand-up, and tin whistle. These instruments provide pleasant additions to the standard “guitar-bass-drum set” structure, and while Carbon Leaf is most certainly a rock band, they leave the floor open for a variety of influences that result in a rather unconventional sound. Terry explains that this is “what makes us unique. Everybody has different influences, and we’re not afraid to put down one instrument and play another.”
The band has been together since the early 90’s; Terry and Barry met on the first day of college nearly twenty years ago. “We’ve never been stronger friends,” they say, and it is during The Bear Rhymes with Woman co-headline tour that I have the privilege of seeing them live at The Hub in Cedar Falls.
Their set opens with yellow lights sitting stationary atop smoke, with a silhouette of the band. Sound check only lasts seconds as they quickly explode into “Life Less Ordinary” and fill the entire venue with excited, dancing bodies.
The lead singer, Barry, waits until the third song to introduce Carbon Leaf from Virginia. Against sharp blue lighting, he thanks the crowd for coming out tonight. The opening bars of “One Prairie Outpost” trickle in as he looks down at our grooving bodies to say, “I love coming through Iowa. It’s one of my favorite states to drive through.”
(Only amused laughter in response from such a local crowd.)
“I’m not kidding. I love. Love. Love. The land.”
Like a crazed professor, Barry directs the crowd as he would a classroom, with a pointed finger and hand gestures to explain the lecture. It is dancing as much as it is vulnerable entertainment. He is an impassioned teacher, lost in the convictions of his lyrics—lost in the music. Singing about the heart, he seems compelled to hold a closed fist against his own, and the crowd stands still as we listen attentively to what he means to teach us. Movement is how he stays connected to what is actually going on.
“I perform for the people, but I have to turn inward and be real.”
It’s obvious that he believes every word he sings; it’s an apparent character trait of the entire band. Although they are on tour, watching them play is much like seeing five guys hearing their own songs for the very first time. The impact is intensely intimate.
We fall beneath a pink shade made of light that pulses with purple. Terry steps close to the mic and dedicates the next song to a young friend of theirs who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. The mood transforms to heavy, the lyrics are real, the words are weighted:
And so it begins, the mirage settles in
But the sky is light pink before violet
Cause everything's now, everything's now
She notices everything
As she puts on the pink
Her world turns to pink
The tribute is emotional, and the guitars sound sharper and slower, as though they are more attentive to sounding perfect for their dear friend. It is impossible not to feel some sort of connection with their pain.
The concert comes to a close with a song sung quietly, the lights turned off and the microphones abandoned up on stage. The only illumination comes from the quick flashes of small cameras, as they are now at the heart of the crowd. They climb the stools and stand on tables, each grabbing a drink in front of them and raising our beers for a toast. Barry, Carter, Jordan, Jason, Terry, and their co-headlining band sing in flawless harmony to say goodnight, “And if you stay, stay long enough, let the music fill your cup.”
The band has been together since the early 90’s; Terry and Barry met on the first day of college nearly twenty years ago. “We’ve never been stronger friends,” they say, and it is during The Bear Rhymes with Woman co-headline tour that I have the privilege of seeing them live at The Hub in Cedar Falls.
Their set opens with yellow lights sitting stationary atop smoke, with a silhouette of the band. Sound check only lasts seconds as they quickly explode into “Life Less Ordinary” and fill the entire venue with excited, dancing bodies.
The lead singer, Barry, waits until the third song to introduce Carbon Leaf from Virginia. Against sharp blue lighting, he thanks the crowd for coming out tonight. The opening bars of “One Prairie Outpost” trickle in as he looks down at our grooving bodies to say, “I love coming through Iowa. It’s one of my favorite states to drive through.”
(Only amused laughter in response from such a local crowd.)
“I’m not kidding. I love. Love. Love. The land.”
Like a crazed professor, Barry directs the crowd as he would a classroom, with a pointed finger and hand gestures to explain the lecture. It is dancing as much as it is vulnerable entertainment. He is an impassioned teacher, lost in the convictions of his lyrics—lost in the music. Singing about the heart, he seems compelled to hold a closed fist against his own, and the crowd stands still as we listen attentively to what he means to teach us. Movement is how he stays connected to what is actually going on.
“I perform for the people, but I have to turn inward and be real.”
It’s obvious that he believes every word he sings; it’s an apparent character trait of the entire band. Although they are on tour, watching them play is much like seeing five guys hearing their own songs for the very first time. The impact is intensely intimate.
We fall beneath a pink shade made of light that pulses with purple. Terry steps close to the mic and dedicates the next song to a young friend of theirs who was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. The mood transforms to heavy, the lyrics are real, the words are weighted:
And so it begins, the mirage settles in
But the sky is light pink before violet
Cause everything's now, everything's now
She notices everything
As she puts on the pink
Her world turns to pink
The tribute is emotional, and the guitars sound sharper and slower, as though they are more attentive to sounding perfect for their dear friend. It is impossible not to feel some sort of connection with their pain.
The concert comes to a close with a song sung quietly, the lights turned off and the microphones abandoned up on stage. The only illumination comes from the quick flashes of small cameras, as they are now at the heart of the crowd. They climb the stools and stand on tables, each grabbing a drink in front of them and raising our beers for a toast. Barry, Carter, Jordan, Jason, Terry, and their co-headlining band sing in flawless harmony to say goodnight, “And if you stay, stay long enough, let the music fill your cup.”
Friday, June 19, 2009
"P-Funk Passengers"
Sparks of hot iron spurt from brute force of blacksmith hands.
He squeezes the orange ashes—the last remains of inflamed tobacco,
Twisting the stub between two handsome fingers
Outside a one inch crack in the passenger side window to let
Backseat riders observe tiny firefly flickers float against a midnight backdrop.
The driver measures the moldy peach colored moon—his hand against the windshield
To discover that it is James’ Giant situated up there, far too close to be so far away…
We are a band of mid-week travelers with post-concert eyes,
Drooping energy on the venture back from an inner-city venue.
Six of us stuffed in the trusty forest green family of a van
And stale. Stale from the lingering smell of leftover French fries
Inside greasy bags discarded beneath our seats.
The harmonica sifts through all four corners our world,
“Piano Man” spilling from speakers, the lyrics landing heavily upon our chests.
Pass the piece around. Keep time with an open palm on your knee;
And the green from the volume dial only grows brighter.
A solitary orange light illuminates the shadowy silo beside the highway
That slices an Iowa cornfield in two.
The eerie farm nightlight encourages subtle hallucinations—
Or perhaps it is the exhaustion getting to me.
I know I am too tired when each mailbox begins looking like
A sleepwalking man threatening to wander in front of the car…
The front seat men are still alert,
And I grow used to the occasional blast of cold air spilling
In from the rolled down window.
They are sharing another smoke to stay awake.
I lean sideways and count white dotted lines to fade asleep.
2:22. “Make two wishes,” he says.
So we stir with mumbled responses, remove blankets from over our heads.
For we are all still whimsical children,
Wishing upon the face of a clock.
He squeezes the orange ashes—the last remains of inflamed tobacco,
Twisting the stub between two handsome fingers
Outside a one inch crack in the passenger side window to let
Backseat riders observe tiny firefly flickers float against a midnight backdrop.
The driver measures the moldy peach colored moon—his hand against the windshield
To discover that it is James’ Giant situated up there, far too close to be so far away…
We are a band of mid-week travelers with post-concert eyes,
Drooping energy on the venture back from an inner-city venue.
Six of us stuffed in the trusty forest green family of a van
And stale. Stale from the lingering smell of leftover French fries
Inside greasy bags discarded beneath our seats.
The harmonica sifts through all four corners our world,
“Piano Man” spilling from speakers, the lyrics landing heavily upon our chests.
Pass the piece around. Keep time with an open palm on your knee;
And the green from the volume dial only grows brighter.
A solitary orange light illuminates the shadowy silo beside the highway
That slices an Iowa cornfield in two.
The eerie farm nightlight encourages subtle hallucinations—
Or perhaps it is the exhaustion getting to me.
I know I am too tired when each mailbox begins looking like
A sleepwalking man threatening to wander in front of the car…
The front seat men are still alert,
And I grow used to the occasional blast of cold air spilling
In from the rolled down window.
They are sharing another smoke to stay awake.
I lean sideways and count white dotted lines to fade asleep.
2:22. “Make two wishes,” he says.
So we stir with mumbled responses, remove blankets from over our heads.
For we are all still whimsical children,
Wishing upon the face of a clock.
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Brief People
disclaimer: names have been changed, and yet i still hope those two people do not happen to land upon this blog...
The “brieflings” rest somewhere in the middle—somewhere between close friend and lover. They are short-lived soul mates who can never be replaced. They are characters who play in short episodes of our lives. Though short in acquaintance, their impact is perhaps greater than we even realize at the time of our immersion into one another. As brief as they may be, their affect lasts maybe just shy of forever.
I cry when I think of him, David, and how we parted ways at the beginning of summer. He was leaving for Texas in a few days and I was leaving for Ireland at the very time we could have reunited. We agreed to write letters, though by the end of summer break, they had stopped arriving. I wanted his support as I prepared to leave the country, but I knew our time was over. We had fallen into each other too suddenly, and much too passionately. We crossed the boundaries of intimacy; ignored rules of heartfelt protection in order to spend a few extra hours together. Time is irrelevant when you are spending time with someone you’re in love with. We never touched. Only talked. And then didn’t talk. Just sat and let our minds connect without words. I would often stare into my empty coffee mug, hoping to magically refill it so I would have something to do during long awkward pauses. Of course this never happened, and I was always so impressed by his immunity to the effects of awkwardness.
He pulled honesty out of me, and I was more than willing to offer it to him. I can’t be sure, but I sometimes wonder if he fell in love with me. The way he looked so directly into my eyes. What he was searching for, I have no idea. But I let him ask and allowed myself to tell. By the end of our meetings, I was exhausted from revealing everything, from giving myself intellectually to another human being. The connection was intense, and my body was consumed by it.
There’s something intriguingly satisfactory about discovering emotional intimacy with someone else. Forget the rest of the world, and lose yourself to that person you believe compliments you most.
It is too good to be true. The relationship must end at some point, and when it does, you recognize how long it wasn’t.
If it had lasted, would it have been the same? If you had detected potential for a reasonable relationship, would you have treated it differently? The irrationality of the situation was part of what made it special.
I miss you. I hope to see you. I stop and stare whenever I see someone who looks remotely similar to you, but we haven’t found each other again yet. I sent you a letter and a postcard from Ireland. I wanted to connect with you, even from across the ocean, but they were unanswered. I can leave you alone I suppose. But what happens when I run into outside? I remember the sweet moments that existed if only to highlight love and to rekindle passion.
I met a very different “brief person” while I was over there. He was too smart for my understanding and I was forced to think hard before I spoke. Bart used his brain as much as he did his heart, and it was easy to lose track of all time. After hours of circling the city of Cork, I found my head heart more than my legs, as I had run a mental marathon in order to keep up with his intellectualism. Without it being our intention, we found ourselves wrapped up in romantic situations. Late night conversations on my balcony overlooking the river, a string of handwritten songs, strummed on the guitar with his deep voice serenading me while he sat in an aged, blue chair. He sang loudly, and without apology, my eerily quiet flat greedily soaking in the lyrics while I flinched from embarrassment. He scrawled notes to me on a piece of lined paper he set in between us during a course called Contemporary Irish Writing and sent me lengthy emails asking intimate questions about my character and what I was like growing up. I can remember the first time we touched. It may have been the third or fourth night we had spent talking until 3 a.m. He had a fifteen-minute walk back to his place and when I led him to the door, he turned and said, “I think we’re to the hugging point in our relationship by now…” I wasn’t expecting it and only offered the awkward “side hug.” I believe nervous laughter followed and he requested another one. I surrendered, gave into his arms and felt tiny. I tried smelling him, to see if I could trace a hint of Montana, but cannot recall ever finding any. He simply smelled like the artsy tweed jacket he was wearing with subtle support from a morning shower and the city streets.
Although I was not attracted to him, it was difficult not to get swept in the romance of finding such a deep connection amidst the bustle of a busy European city. Is it possible to have more than one soul mate? I believe I have many, many who connect with portions of my soul and have yet to find one who completes me. David was my philosophical better half, and I believe Bart was placed there to probe me spiritually. But I think I fell in love intellectually with both of them, and a part of me believes this love was reciprocated.
Bart once wrote the following piece about a moment we spent together:
Experiences remain in the mind like nebulous Knots - what one remembers is a tangled sphere of objects, emotions, derailed trains of thought, colours, smells. It's always incomplete. Untied strands try to float away from the Knot, held by the thinnest thread, waiting to be caught back into the Knot with a reminder from someone else who has a similar jumble in their own mind.
The experiences of the past are fragments floating around in the aether. Some are quite small (yesterday I had a bowl of seafood chowder for lunch - it had mussels and fish, and was a milky pinkish colour. I added a bit of pepper from the pepper grinder, but it wouldn't grind for some reason, otherwise I would have added a bit more. On the side I had a little brown bread and soda bread with a little pat of Irish butter),
But even these smaller Knots thread into larger Knots (my chowder didn't have any whole mussels in it, but hers had two, so she gave me one for mine. The mussel itself, a small black affair, was a bit slimy and altogether not the best thing I've eaten, but I was happy to try it anyhow. The meal cost seven euro. We both had water from a steel pitcher. The pitcher didn't have any ice, but the water was cool enough, and two thin slices of lemon floated on the top before we poured them into our glasses. The napkins were paper - and I never put paper napkins on my lap, only cloth - but since she did I followed suit. I dropped it on the floor once. An old man left his hat - a green, medium-brimmed fedora - on his chair; we didn't see it before he was long gone, unfortunately. An older waitress picked it up shortly after we noticed it, but I don't know where she took it. The café was above the English Market downtown. She was a little squeamish, if in a smiling way, about all of the raw meat on display in the market below, but I don't think it interfered with our enjoyment of the meal, as we were seated in a back corner. On the wall, mounted behind glass - as she explained to me after getting a better view - were several poems by famous locals like Seán Ó Tuama, some in Irish, some in English. One was by a Martin or Michael Sweeney - I commented that the name is actually fairly common in Cork. Another was a short bit about Japanese rain, probably selected from a longer poem. We talked a good while about various things, like an adventure she had for a writing project - as a barista she had encountered quite often over two years a certain trucker. The trucker always ordered six shots of espresso in his caramel macchiato, with extra caramel, and an extra pump of flavour to boot. He'd have these two or three times a day. He was apparently entertaining if sometimes crude. One day she asked if she could go semi-trucking with him, and he agreed. She spent a day just accompanying him on his travels, as he explained the fifteen gears and talked about trucking stereotypes and the truth. She took notes and was later able to write about it for her project. Her professor thanked her for putting so much effort into the assignment - though she had to get an extension on it. We talked about inspiration, and creativity, and our future plans. I expounded on my ideas of what an ideal friendship is, and from there on to marriage, and how I think that most marriages in this world are based on something upon which they shouldn't be based. We both toyed with the idea that art is often created in unhappy situations. She expressed that she didn't think she would be single for the rest of her life, and that she and God "had already worked that out." I said that I would be until I could be confident pursuing something, knowing where my life was headed. But I didn't know that I could ever "settle down" completely, and had to take that into account. I would only do so if that person was "worth it." She seemed amused or bemused by the idea of someone being "worth it," but I absolutely meant it, as I further explained. I could see into the kitchen behind her, and the wineglasses hanging from their holder at the bar area. She said she'd be drinking water the rest of the day. I asked if it was because the food was so salty, and she nodded. We paid for our meals separately - I paid with a ten and got three one-Euro coins in return. I didn't leave a tip; I still don't know whether or not to do that here.)
And even those larger Knots (I've only accounted for a handful of minutes above) tie into still larger Knots of hours, of days, weeks, months, years, and so forth. It might be easier on the imagination to call such things Threads, but the Threads are the most minute details (the powerful taste of the mussel) (the coldness of the soda bread against the heat of the chowder) (her nails are much longer than mine).
It would be hopeless to untangle it all. Time fades some of the colours, but some pieces stick for years and years, even for lifetimes. But some definitely fades. There is a strange urgency I feel now and again to write, to record these Threads and Knots of colour in the written word while their hues are still vivid and full of life. Sometimes, however, I feel profoundly that writing, or taking a snapshot, can spoil the experience slightly. Quality is, at times, sacrificed for longevity. This is only sometimes - but some things are so intricate that to fully attempt to unravel and categorize all of the component Threads would take a great deal of time - time that could be spent being immersed in the experience while it happens.
I did not know how to respond to these words after I first read them, but when I look back on the piece today I guess I realize how much we really impacted each other, and even though our relationship only lasted for about a month, I will never forget that means Ireland to me in some ways…
But the “brieflings” cannot remain in my life forever. Eventually the feelings of intimacy overwhelm me and I find myself close to a point of internal explosion. I am usually the first to walk away. The relationship ends, not necessarily in bitterness because there is a mutual understanding that our time together has ended. Bart and David are just two of the brief people I have loved; there are so many other men and women I have connected with over the years, and I am sure I have yet to meet. They are somewhat essential to survival and development as a human being. They help me to feel, inspire me to write, cause me to think…I believe they knock me back into an element of passionate living. A professor once told me that people believed the gods had created soul mates in order that we might spend more time looking for our other halves than rising to their level. They believed we had been originally created as whole beings and were then split in half and scattered about the earth simply because of the gods’ paranoia. Of course today it seems absurd to subscribe to this belief, and my professor was sure to offer that he thought a soul mate is half-destined, and half-created. Perhaps I just have yet to channel my energy into maintaining the intimate connection with one of my soul mates. Or maybe none of them were soul mates anyway, and so “brieflings” is what I am calling them until I decide.
The “brieflings” rest somewhere in the middle—somewhere between close friend and lover. They are short-lived soul mates who can never be replaced. They are characters who play in short episodes of our lives. Though short in acquaintance, their impact is perhaps greater than we even realize at the time of our immersion into one another. As brief as they may be, their affect lasts maybe just shy of forever.
I cry when I think of him, David, and how we parted ways at the beginning of summer. He was leaving for Texas in a few days and I was leaving for Ireland at the very time we could have reunited. We agreed to write letters, though by the end of summer break, they had stopped arriving. I wanted his support as I prepared to leave the country, but I knew our time was over. We had fallen into each other too suddenly, and much too passionately. We crossed the boundaries of intimacy; ignored rules of heartfelt protection in order to spend a few extra hours together. Time is irrelevant when you are spending time with someone you’re in love with. We never touched. Only talked. And then didn’t talk. Just sat and let our minds connect without words. I would often stare into my empty coffee mug, hoping to magically refill it so I would have something to do during long awkward pauses. Of course this never happened, and I was always so impressed by his immunity to the effects of awkwardness.
He pulled honesty out of me, and I was more than willing to offer it to him. I can’t be sure, but I sometimes wonder if he fell in love with me. The way he looked so directly into my eyes. What he was searching for, I have no idea. But I let him ask and allowed myself to tell. By the end of our meetings, I was exhausted from revealing everything, from giving myself intellectually to another human being. The connection was intense, and my body was consumed by it.
There’s something intriguingly satisfactory about discovering emotional intimacy with someone else. Forget the rest of the world, and lose yourself to that person you believe compliments you most.
It is too good to be true. The relationship must end at some point, and when it does, you recognize how long it wasn’t.
If it had lasted, would it have been the same? If you had detected potential for a reasonable relationship, would you have treated it differently? The irrationality of the situation was part of what made it special.
I miss you. I hope to see you. I stop and stare whenever I see someone who looks remotely similar to you, but we haven’t found each other again yet. I sent you a letter and a postcard from Ireland. I wanted to connect with you, even from across the ocean, but they were unanswered. I can leave you alone I suppose. But what happens when I run into outside? I remember the sweet moments that existed if only to highlight love and to rekindle passion.
I met a very different “brief person” while I was over there. He was too smart for my understanding and I was forced to think hard before I spoke. Bart used his brain as much as he did his heart, and it was easy to lose track of all time. After hours of circling the city of Cork, I found my head heart more than my legs, as I had run a mental marathon in order to keep up with his intellectualism. Without it being our intention, we found ourselves wrapped up in romantic situations. Late night conversations on my balcony overlooking the river, a string of handwritten songs, strummed on the guitar with his deep voice serenading me while he sat in an aged, blue chair. He sang loudly, and without apology, my eerily quiet flat greedily soaking in the lyrics while I flinched from embarrassment. He scrawled notes to me on a piece of lined paper he set in between us during a course called Contemporary Irish Writing and sent me lengthy emails asking intimate questions about my character and what I was like growing up. I can remember the first time we touched. It may have been the third or fourth night we had spent talking until 3 a.m. He had a fifteen-minute walk back to his place and when I led him to the door, he turned and said, “I think we’re to the hugging point in our relationship by now…” I wasn’t expecting it and only offered the awkward “side hug.” I believe nervous laughter followed and he requested another one. I surrendered, gave into his arms and felt tiny. I tried smelling him, to see if I could trace a hint of Montana, but cannot recall ever finding any. He simply smelled like the artsy tweed jacket he was wearing with subtle support from a morning shower and the city streets.
Although I was not attracted to him, it was difficult not to get swept in the romance of finding such a deep connection amidst the bustle of a busy European city. Is it possible to have more than one soul mate? I believe I have many, many who connect with portions of my soul and have yet to find one who completes me. David was my philosophical better half, and I believe Bart was placed there to probe me spiritually. But I think I fell in love intellectually with both of them, and a part of me believes this love was reciprocated.
Bart once wrote the following piece about a moment we spent together:
Experiences remain in the mind like nebulous Knots - what one remembers is a tangled sphere of objects, emotions, derailed trains of thought, colours, smells. It's always incomplete. Untied strands try to float away from the Knot, held by the thinnest thread, waiting to be caught back into the Knot with a reminder from someone else who has a similar jumble in their own mind.
The experiences of the past are fragments floating around in the aether. Some are quite small (yesterday I had a bowl of seafood chowder for lunch - it had mussels and fish, and was a milky pinkish colour. I added a bit of pepper from the pepper grinder, but it wouldn't grind for some reason, otherwise I would have added a bit more. On the side I had a little brown bread and soda bread with a little pat of Irish butter),
But even these smaller Knots thread into larger Knots (my chowder didn't have any whole mussels in it, but hers had two, so she gave me one for mine. The mussel itself, a small black affair, was a bit slimy and altogether not the best thing I've eaten, but I was happy to try it anyhow. The meal cost seven euro. We both had water from a steel pitcher. The pitcher didn't have any ice, but the water was cool enough, and two thin slices of lemon floated on the top before we poured them into our glasses. The napkins were paper - and I never put paper napkins on my lap, only cloth - but since she did I followed suit. I dropped it on the floor once. An old man left his hat - a green, medium-brimmed fedora - on his chair; we didn't see it before he was long gone, unfortunately. An older waitress picked it up shortly after we noticed it, but I don't know where she took it. The café was above the English Market downtown. She was a little squeamish, if in a smiling way, about all of the raw meat on display in the market below, but I don't think it interfered with our enjoyment of the meal, as we were seated in a back corner. On the wall, mounted behind glass - as she explained to me after getting a better view - were several poems by famous locals like Seán Ó Tuama, some in Irish, some in English. One was by a Martin or Michael Sweeney - I commented that the name is actually fairly common in Cork. Another was a short bit about Japanese rain, probably selected from a longer poem. We talked a good while about various things, like an adventure she had for a writing project - as a barista she had encountered quite often over two years a certain trucker. The trucker always ordered six shots of espresso in his caramel macchiato, with extra caramel, and an extra pump of flavour to boot. He'd have these two or three times a day. He was apparently entertaining if sometimes crude. One day she asked if she could go semi-trucking with him, and he agreed. She spent a day just accompanying him on his travels, as he explained the fifteen gears and talked about trucking stereotypes and the truth. She took notes and was later able to write about it for her project. Her professor thanked her for putting so much effort into the assignment - though she had to get an extension on it. We talked about inspiration, and creativity, and our future plans. I expounded on my ideas of what an ideal friendship is, and from there on to marriage, and how I think that most marriages in this world are based on something upon which they shouldn't be based. We both toyed with the idea that art is often created in unhappy situations. She expressed that she didn't think she would be single for the rest of her life, and that she and God "had already worked that out." I said that I would be until I could be confident pursuing something, knowing where my life was headed. But I didn't know that I could ever "settle down" completely, and had to take that into account. I would only do so if that person was "worth it." She seemed amused or bemused by the idea of someone being "worth it," but I absolutely meant it, as I further explained. I could see into the kitchen behind her, and the wineglasses hanging from their holder at the bar area. She said she'd be drinking water the rest of the day. I asked if it was because the food was so salty, and she nodded. We paid for our meals separately - I paid with a ten and got three one-Euro coins in return. I didn't leave a tip; I still don't know whether or not to do that here.)
And even those larger Knots (I've only accounted for a handful of minutes above) tie into still larger Knots of hours, of days, weeks, months, years, and so forth. It might be easier on the imagination to call such things Threads, but the Threads are the most minute details (the powerful taste of the mussel) (the coldness of the soda bread against the heat of the chowder) (her nails are much longer than mine).
It would be hopeless to untangle it all. Time fades some of the colours, but some pieces stick for years and years, even for lifetimes. But some definitely fades. There is a strange urgency I feel now and again to write, to record these Threads and Knots of colour in the written word while their hues are still vivid and full of life. Sometimes, however, I feel profoundly that writing, or taking a snapshot, can spoil the experience slightly. Quality is, at times, sacrificed for longevity. This is only sometimes - but some things are so intricate that to fully attempt to unravel and categorize all of the component Threads would take a great deal of time - time that could be spent being immersed in the experience while it happens.
I did not know how to respond to these words after I first read them, but when I look back on the piece today I guess I realize how much we really impacted each other, and even though our relationship only lasted for about a month, I will never forget that means Ireland to me in some ways…
But the “brieflings” cannot remain in my life forever. Eventually the feelings of intimacy overwhelm me and I find myself close to a point of internal explosion. I am usually the first to walk away. The relationship ends, not necessarily in bitterness because there is a mutual understanding that our time together has ended. Bart and David are just two of the brief people I have loved; there are so many other men and women I have connected with over the years, and I am sure I have yet to meet. They are somewhat essential to survival and development as a human being. They help me to feel, inspire me to write, cause me to think…I believe they knock me back into an element of passionate living. A professor once told me that people believed the gods had created soul mates in order that we might spend more time looking for our other halves than rising to their level. They believed we had been originally created as whole beings and were then split in half and scattered about the earth simply because of the gods’ paranoia. Of course today it seems absurd to subscribe to this belief, and my professor was sure to offer that he thought a soul mate is half-destined, and half-created. Perhaps I just have yet to channel my energy into maintaining the intimate connection with one of my soul mates. Or maybe none of them were soul mates anyway, and so “brieflings” is what I am calling them until I decide.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
The Quiet
At night, one cannot tell by looking where the sea ends and the land begins. The boundary slips into invisibility and a quiet observer is left to wonder how to distinguish the shadows cast by rocks from those cast off boats. He attempts to determine the exact moment when last night’s evening turns into this morning’s dawn, or if there is ever a point when we are caught with one foot in both. The air is cool, carrying a breeze unforgiving that demands a few chills. Cold arms and legs keep one alert and acutely aware of his immediate presence.
I sink a little further back into the weatherworn, weeping white chair in order to take in the scattered lights along the landscape that so adequately mirrors the expanse above. Of course upon gazing upwards, I realize then that the spaces around me are all the same. Black, more like a deep midnight blue, with specks of streetlamps and tugboats and winking balls of gas millions of miles away… Sitting stationary helps, for there are far too few lights to guide me along these narrow dirt roads. I had to grope the sides of stonewalls to reach my place of solitude anyway. In order to solidify thoughts, I must remain still: nothing definitive happens when I am running about, and if something tries to, I find I always stop anyway so as to let life knock the wind right out of me. At the moment, I’ve made a conscious decision to sit silently and allow the earth to move about me. While we are at the very center of our own worlds, it is a quite a humbling human experience to recognize the earth continues to rotate despite us. What can happen when we choose not to contribute to the earth’s action and instead take an hour or two now and again to let her do all the moving in our place? I like to think that these are moments when we finally experience “seeing” for the first time, the type of moments that Annie Dillard writes of in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
These moments of inexplicable beauty are cathartic and essential to the core of our humanity; they are meant to accompany us at fallen places where we needed a boost of faith to keep us in the present and breathing, usually a boost we were unaware of needing in the first place. It is during these times when the head is separated completely from the rest of the body, or when the mind and the heart finally acknowledge their differences. Sometimes I catch myself attempting to process some sort of grief, recite lyrics to a song, or work out a life equation in my head but I always wind up at a dead end. I hit a brick wall, my brain smashing against my heart, leaving me with nothing but feelings—full feelings that are as solid as thoughts themselves. Quite unintentionally, I start being. It’s best when there’s nothing to stop me, though something always does. Usually it’s the unavoidable buzz of a mosquito or a chilling rain, and sometimes it’s my mother telling me for the last time that dinner is ready. But I always retreat inside, happy to have had a pleasant conversation with nature and recognizing that these moments simply cannot last forever if they strive to remain sacred.
The traveler will find that these moments happen just as frequently as they do when he is at home, and typically at unexpected locations. The tourist paths are worn too far down to find an authentic meeting with creation. Often times I have traveled with at least one other companion (for safety’s sake, as well as entertainment’s) and found it to be disabling to the cathartic experience. Selfishly, I desire solitude against the rough wind when climbing the Cliffs of Moher. In the dead silence of early morning, I try to be the first to slip from my tent, which is placed on opposite side of a small hill—a stone’s throw from the ocean. I can still remember the smell of salty waves caressing the soft beach as I went for a short walk among tall grasses and rabbits. Occasionally, the moments even occur when I am in a group of people, but only if they have allowed me to become anonymous. They strummed forcefully on guitars and rolled cigarettes, singing Irish rebel songs, while I sat in the shadow of their glory, silently observing and gleaning from their passion. But I have had just as many of these “seeing” moments in the cornfields of Iowa. Sometimes I’d lose myself to the glowing embers of waning bonfire or lay in the snow listening to my amplified breathing, unable to move because my snow pants were oversized and difficult to maneuver in. I’d see how long I could keep my eyes open to the falling flakes and wonder where they were coming from or what would happen if I lay there until completely covered… Waking to sound of a summer sunrise and pressing my nose against the window, I will never forget the smell of the screen mixed with the smell of freshly cut grass. Even at a young age, I knew that it was best to escape outside and walk barefoot through dew-drenched grass before anyone else could wake and join me. Examining a morning glory can be spiritual.
What I am saying is that I did not greet any more experiences than I think I normally would, I just simply found more time to run into and record them in the first place. Escaping to a far away country did offer me the luxury of later nights and mornings without obligations; two of the most vulnerable times for a heart-thinker like me. Ireland was perhaps one of the coolest things I have done. I refer to her as a “thing” rather than a country because the whole study abroad experience was quite the feat for such a conservative person as me. If anyone would ever ask me whether or not he should travel, I would undoubtedly say, “yes.” I think I would be the first to say that having reservations about leaving for a short while is a waste of one’s time. Yet I would also forewarn him about discovering a changed self (not an exchanged self), and a changed home that is somehow completely the same after months from being gone. I would advise him to embark on the trip there as well as the trip back with as few expectations as possible, and to recognize that we follow ourselves wherever we go.
But we will always have the seemingly random (wholly ordained) moments no matter where we end up. In brief, travel. Or don’t. Just “be here now,” and whenever your life starts to feel limp, wake up earlier than everyone and go for a long, thoughtless walk. It’s quieter then. I think we need the quiet sometimes.
I sink a little further back into the weatherworn, weeping white chair in order to take in the scattered lights along the landscape that so adequately mirrors the expanse above. Of course upon gazing upwards, I realize then that the spaces around me are all the same. Black, more like a deep midnight blue, with specks of streetlamps and tugboats and winking balls of gas millions of miles away… Sitting stationary helps, for there are far too few lights to guide me along these narrow dirt roads. I had to grope the sides of stonewalls to reach my place of solitude anyway. In order to solidify thoughts, I must remain still: nothing definitive happens when I am running about, and if something tries to, I find I always stop anyway so as to let life knock the wind right out of me. At the moment, I’ve made a conscious decision to sit silently and allow the earth to move about me. While we are at the very center of our own worlds, it is a quite a humbling human experience to recognize the earth continues to rotate despite us. What can happen when we choose not to contribute to the earth’s action and instead take an hour or two now and again to let her do all the moving in our place? I like to think that these are moments when we finally experience “seeing” for the first time, the type of moments that Annie Dillard writes of in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
These moments of inexplicable beauty are cathartic and essential to the core of our humanity; they are meant to accompany us at fallen places where we needed a boost of faith to keep us in the present and breathing, usually a boost we were unaware of needing in the first place. It is during these times when the head is separated completely from the rest of the body, or when the mind and the heart finally acknowledge their differences. Sometimes I catch myself attempting to process some sort of grief, recite lyrics to a song, or work out a life equation in my head but I always wind up at a dead end. I hit a brick wall, my brain smashing against my heart, leaving me with nothing but feelings—full feelings that are as solid as thoughts themselves. Quite unintentionally, I start being. It’s best when there’s nothing to stop me, though something always does. Usually it’s the unavoidable buzz of a mosquito or a chilling rain, and sometimes it’s my mother telling me for the last time that dinner is ready. But I always retreat inside, happy to have had a pleasant conversation with nature and recognizing that these moments simply cannot last forever if they strive to remain sacred.
The traveler will find that these moments happen just as frequently as they do when he is at home, and typically at unexpected locations. The tourist paths are worn too far down to find an authentic meeting with creation. Often times I have traveled with at least one other companion (for safety’s sake, as well as entertainment’s) and found it to be disabling to the cathartic experience. Selfishly, I desire solitude against the rough wind when climbing the Cliffs of Moher. In the dead silence of early morning, I try to be the first to slip from my tent, which is placed on opposite side of a small hill—a stone’s throw from the ocean. I can still remember the smell of salty waves caressing the soft beach as I went for a short walk among tall grasses and rabbits. Occasionally, the moments even occur when I am in a group of people, but only if they have allowed me to become anonymous. They strummed forcefully on guitars and rolled cigarettes, singing Irish rebel songs, while I sat in the shadow of their glory, silently observing and gleaning from their passion. But I have had just as many of these “seeing” moments in the cornfields of Iowa. Sometimes I’d lose myself to the glowing embers of waning bonfire or lay in the snow listening to my amplified breathing, unable to move because my snow pants were oversized and difficult to maneuver in. I’d see how long I could keep my eyes open to the falling flakes and wonder where they were coming from or what would happen if I lay there until completely covered… Waking to sound of a summer sunrise and pressing my nose against the window, I will never forget the smell of the screen mixed with the smell of freshly cut grass. Even at a young age, I knew that it was best to escape outside and walk barefoot through dew-drenched grass before anyone else could wake and join me. Examining a morning glory can be spiritual.
What I am saying is that I did not greet any more experiences than I think I normally would, I just simply found more time to run into and record them in the first place. Escaping to a far away country did offer me the luxury of later nights and mornings without obligations; two of the most vulnerable times for a heart-thinker like me. Ireland was perhaps one of the coolest things I have done. I refer to her as a “thing” rather than a country because the whole study abroad experience was quite the feat for such a conservative person as me. If anyone would ever ask me whether or not he should travel, I would undoubtedly say, “yes.” I think I would be the first to say that having reservations about leaving for a short while is a waste of one’s time. Yet I would also forewarn him about discovering a changed self (not an exchanged self), and a changed home that is somehow completely the same after months from being gone. I would advise him to embark on the trip there as well as the trip back with as few expectations as possible, and to recognize that we follow ourselves wherever we go.
But we will always have the seemingly random (wholly ordained) moments no matter where we end up. In brief, travel. Or don’t. Just “be here now,” and whenever your life starts to feel limp, wake up earlier than everyone and go for a long, thoughtless walk. It’s quieter then. I think we need the quiet sometimes.
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