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.”
Sunday, October 25, 2009
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.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
"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...
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...
Friday, December 5, 2008
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.
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.
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