First off, my apologies for not posting anything in a while, to explain, I've been sick for the past few weeks. Then nature of my illness is still a private matter and I've been getting better. But as I've been a bit subdued I've been ruminating about things, most predominately what people do for each other when they're sick.
See, Reg was sick the other week and I sat and took care of her while she was confined to her bed. For a few of the days she lost the faculty of speech and we had to communicate through notes and abbreviated sign language. A lot of what I did for her was fetching sandwiches, bowls of cereal, cups of tea. I refilled her hot water bottle, I made sure she was comfortable, I called into her appointments and let them know she was sick. I did all of this and even more so than that I was there for her.
It's a simple thing, being there for someone. It means a lot, however. I remember a few years back when Reg came and visited me in the states I came down with a fever. I'm not one who takes being sick very well, that is to say I don't tolerate it and refuse to wallow under my symptoms generally resulting in me getting up and about and making due with my reduced functions. Reg, however, wouldn't hear of it. She forced me to lay down in bed with as many blankets as she could muster covering me. I sweat it out over the course of a day and a night slipping in and out of restless sleep. She made sure I was hydrated, made sure I didn't throw the sheets off, she was there for me. I couldn't remember the last time someone had done that for me, and could remember a few times when they'd flat out refused.
Now, when I'd lay in bed, quarantined not because I was contagious but because she would worry if I was allowed out on my own, I could see it in her eyes that she wished she could do more. My mystery symptoms, my lack of appetite, my repeated assurances that 'I don't need anything'. Her caring instincts make her wish she could heat up another bowl of soup, that she could fetch me some more pillows or blankets, that there was some need she could fulfill. There isn't really but I appreciate that she keeps asking. I like it that she's there for me. It means more that she'll sit quietly by my side, smiling when she looks over, putting her hand on mine than any creature comfort she can run down and grab from the kitchen.
For some reason it makes me think of a friend of mine, an old flame if you will, a girl I only knew face to face for a week. She spun out across the world leading a life sometimes stranger than fiction. But she'd call on me or more accurately text me every now and then when things went off kilter for her. I couldn't fix what was going on in her life and I suspect that she knew that before she even told me what was up. But all the same she'd call and we'd talk. I wouldn't judge, I didn't ask too many questions, I did what I do best; I listened. I like to believe that I made her feel better just by bearing witness and providing some small comfort by letting her being human. A little frail, sure. A little abnormal; yeah. But simply a person who wanted to talk without judgement to another person at the core of all things.
I guess the same thing happens to everyone when they're not quite tip-top, the thing you want most of all is just someone else to sit by your side and make sure you're okay. As much as Reg wants to make me healthy again she can't, it pains me to no end to be in the opposite position when she's feeling sick. We're not doctors. But when the need arises we can play nurse to one another by fluffing pillows and finding something to take our minds off our suffering. I'm glad Reg is there for me, I'm happy to be there for her. I feel like sitting in bed together, not really saying much, watching YouTube clips on her computer is better than a hospital, is better than home. It's the best place in the world for me to be.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
The Simple Life, minus Paris and Nicole
But all the same I'm not suggesting that nothing gets done down on the old homestead. Oh heavens no, all of this nutrition is necessary for the neverending stream of work, chores, and even excursions that make the days full of action. Keep in mind now that whatever I'm doing is out of the goodness of my heart in repayment for all of the generosity I receive and I am in no way shape or form compensated monetarily. The day starts somewhere around dawn as sun streams in the picture windows of the guest room, I amble downstairs to the days first feeding which may be some simple porriage or a full Fry-up as the situation dictates, off to the shed where your man is already hard at work fixing up the local populace's tractorial equipment. He's a miracle worker who seems to have a knack for finding the shortest distance between broke and mended via what scraps to metal are laying about. More or less I'm in charge of fetching the necessary tool from some far flung corner of the disorder that passes for a shop, tool number one is of course the hammer (which comes in regular and lump varieties) followed by the spanners (a technical term for wrenches) both of which are simple machines that can be used with surgical precision in the right hands.
In less industrial settings I was volunteered to shovel turf out in the bogs. I tell you ladies and gentelmen you need look no further for an upper body work out. I reckon that a three or four days of the exhertion would leave you with shoulder as broad as a bull, fortunately for myself I was only set to it for an hour and gained little more than a hearty appreciation for what the farming peoples of the country have done for centuries to stoke the flames of their hearth. Compounding the threat of exhaustion is the fact that the bog is a deadly expanse that vaguely resembles the surface of mars. Imagine if you would a great stretch of dirt red earth peppered with sprouts of shrub and scrub brush, yet sprouting up in fields are the stacks of cut turf resembling rudimentary ziggurats, when the sun catches them at the right angle you can prize out an intricate array of spiders' silks connecting one small temple to each and every other structure in a small scale city of sod. The danger lies, however, in the ponds which have formed in the hollows where the soil has been dug away. Beautiful, serene pools of water perfectly square. One would imagine they would be a great place for a dip or even a pool party with the addition of a beach ball and a small grill. But, as I was informed, many had gone in never to return for the bottoms are a mire of thick mud which will suck you down harder than quicksand, and even if you were to get to an edge the sides will fall away under your hands and leave you frantically clawing for a freedom that will not arrive.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Dancing with the Devil
Day 12 in Ireland, I think, my math is fuzzy.
So I’ve been inside all day tending to Reg who came down with a bad case of something as a result of walking around Dublin in the rain yesterday. Halloween was kind of a bust but it goes that way sometimes and as a result of my nurse duties I missed most of what has been the most beautiful day on the island thus far. But as I said to Reg (who can’t talk back) there’s still no where I’d rather be than by her side, that’s just kind of how love makes you feel.
To illustrate why I feel this way let me tell you about the other night. We had the house pretty much to ourselves and seeing as there wasn’t anywhere we’d rather be we parked ourselves in the living room and put a bag of coals on the fire. As it burned we relaxed with Thai food and a couple of drinks while we watched “Clue” the ‘85 movie with Tim Curry, if you haven’t seen it then please please please do me a favor and get your hands on a copy asap, it’s a joy. Curled up on the couch, watching a movie, sated and cozy, what more could you want?
Well, there’s one thing that always makes thing better in Ireland; Music. Now I could go on for pages upon pages about the magic that is an Irish Trad. Band flowing through a session tucked deep in the corners of a tightly packed pub, and with some luck I will do just that at a later date. But that night we did not put on anything from Reggie’s homeland, instead, Reg whipped up a play list with the likes of Tom Waites and the Rolling Stones and we let the night begin to smolder.
Mind you Regina is a somewhat trained celi-dancer (pronounced Kay-Lee, I can’t type Irish on this keyboard) and in her own way has quite a few moves at her disposal that fall outside the realm of ancient celtic arts. So She, in a sexy pair of high heeled boots no less, starts to swing and kick her way all around the wooden floor of the living room. I, being a proud descendant of Italian chestnut farmers, simply could not let a pretty girl dance alone and got up to join her. Now, I’m no Astaire or even a poor man’s MC Hammer but all the same I felt obligated to hold my own in the seduction that is dance.
Admittedly I was hindered by the fact that I was wearing my socks so I ran upstairs to fetch some hard soled shoes and my bowler hat, pairing those with a slim pair of black jeans and a black tank top and I have to say I was one cane and a little guy-liner away from being a cabaret idol. In an obvious fit of jealousy Reg bolted upstairs and returned a few minutes later wearing a bob-length, cold-fusion blue wig. Now it was ON! She and I started cutting loose in what was clearly a two horse race for king and or queen of the dance floor. She bobbed, I wove, I twisted, she kicked, she boogied, I woogied and soon we were both sweaty and silly on the inebriation that only a good dance off can provide.
By will of the cosmic forces of the universe two people really can connect when wrapped up in a dance and somehow Reg and I seemed to be reading the same choreography sheets. Caught in the heady energy and enslaved by the Bangles ‘walk like an Egyptian’ we danced on and on until we finally collapsed in a fit of fanning and panting. And there as the embers glowed on, as the rum bottle got slowly emptier, as the songs began to repeat themselves, we lost all sense of time and place and were absorbed by the all consuming happiness which will, if you are lucky, overtake you at one point or another but only after you’ve forgotten all of your pretences and lost yourself in rhythms.
So I’ve been inside all day tending to Reg who came down with a bad case of something as a result of walking around Dublin in the rain yesterday. Halloween was kind of a bust but it goes that way sometimes and as a result of my nurse duties I missed most of what has been the most beautiful day on the island thus far. But as I said to Reg (who can’t talk back) there’s still no where I’d rather be than by her side, that’s just kind of how love makes you feel.
To illustrate why I feel this way let me tell you about the other night. We had the house pretty much to ourselves and seeing as there wasn’t anywhere we’d rather be we parked ourselves in the living room and put a bag of coals on the fire. As it burned we relaxed with Thai food and a couple of drinks while we watched “Clue” the ‘85 movie with Tim Curry, if you haven’t seen it then please please please do me a favor and get your hands on a copy asap, it’s a joy. Curled up on the couch, watching a movie, sated and cozy, what more could you want?
Well, there’s one thing that always makes thing better in Ireland; Music. Now I could go on for pages upon pages about the magic that is an Irish Trad. Band flowing through a session tucked deep in the corners of a tightly packed pub, and with some luck I will do just that at a later date. But that night we did not put on anything from Reggie’s homeland, instead, Reg whipped up a play list with the likes of Tom Waites and the Rolling Stones and we let the night begin to smolder.
Mind you Regina is a somewhat trained celi-dancer (pronounced Kay-Lee, I can’t type Irish on this keyboard) and in her own way has quite a few moves at her disposal that fall outside the realm of ancient celtic arts. So She, in a sexy pair of high heeled boots no less, starts to swing and kick her way all around the wooden floor of the living room. I, being a proud descendant of Italian chestnut farmers, simply could not let a pretty girl dance alone and got up to join her. Now, I’m no Astaire or even a poor man’s MC Hammer but all the same I felt obligated to hold my own in the seduction that is dance.
Admittedly I was hindered by the fact that I was wearing my socks so I ran upstairs to fetch some hard soled shoes and my bowler hat, pairing those with a slim pair of black jeans and a black tank top and I have to say I was one cane and a little guy-liner away from being a cabaret idol. In an obvious fit of jealousy Reg bolted upstairs and returned a few minutes later wearing a bob-length, cold-fusion blue wig. Now it was ON! She and I started cutting loose in what was clearly a two horse race for king and or queen of the dance floor. She bobbed, I wove, I twisted, she kicked, she boogied, I woogied and soon we were both sweaty and silly on the inebriation that only a good dance off can provide.
By will of the cosmic forces of the universe two people really can connect when wrapped up in a dance and somehow Reg and I seemed to be reading the same choreography sheets. Caught in the heady energy and enslaved by the Bangles ‘walk like an Egyptian’ we danced on and on until we finally collapsed in a fit of fanning and panting. And there as the embers glowed on, as the rum bottle got slowly emptier, as the songs began to repeat themselves, we lost all sense of time and place and were absorbed by the all consuming happiness which will, if you are lucky, overtake you at one point or another but only after you’ve forgotten all of your pretences and lost yourself in rhythms.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Caveman Arts
Day 4 in Ireland.
Watching a 'fil-im' in Reg's living room in front of a calmly roaring fire as the smell of peat fills the air. For those of you who grew up in countries not filled with bogs I'll give you a bit of a lesson. Here in Ireland large parts of the landscape are taken up with Peat bogs which are regularly dug up and cut apart to be used as fire fuel. 'Turf' as it's known colloquially. Many times in the past I've made a pest of myself by poking fun at the "shortsightedness" of an island nation digging up its own sail and then burning it for heat. And while you might be envisioning environmental devastation and strip-mine like chasms in the Irish countryside I have been brought up to speed and now know that the bog regenerates itself in about twenty five years. So as long as they don't start exporting it in mass they shouldn't run out any time soon.
Now, I have also been informed that the process of building a 'turf' fire is a delicate one. Not so much informed as one would be if they dropped by the tourist bureau for a nice cup of tea, as I was scolded and told to put down the tongs whenever I fiddled with the embers. Most of my life starting a fire has been a simple process in which one gets a little paper, some small sticks, a big old pile of wood, and some accellerant; pile it up, pour it over, and add a match. Presto-Flame-o. The process in this much older part of the Atlantic involves first sifting through the coals to identify any living remnants of the last fire you had, after which one places a small piece of 'timber', I.E. a spare bit of wood about the size of a deck of cards on the ember then piles several logs of 'turf' on top. After which there is much blowing and with any luck the starter scrap will become alight.
While the fire may in fact be on at this point that does not mean it's ready for a quiet evening filled with cocoa and cookies. This is where the fires stops being a game of checkers and starts to seem more like Jenga with chess pieces for if one puts too many sods on the fire will fail to take off as it is being smothered but if you do not put enough on you will be left with too little heat with which to start a proper flame. If you do achieve ignition you run the risk of stoking too big of a fire and setting the chimney ablaze. The best way of dampening the fire is to put another brick of peat on top of the already too big flame, I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous but I promise you that this is how it's been done for ages. So to recap, you can't start a turf fire using turf, once it has started you can kill it with too little fuel or too much, if the fire does get too big then you add more fuel, which will make the fire smaller to the point of once again putting out the flames and having to start over again.
I've been saying and seeing that Ireland is a fairly straight forward and curvy country at the same time, up and down, left and right all at once. The Irish are intensely proud of their country and their nationality but it is expected that when receiving a compliment that you deny it as a first reaction, otherwise you are seen as being full of yourself. The roads will take you where you want to go, but first you must travel in as circuitous a fashion as possible. And even though it's a painstaking effort to build a fire, there's no more restful feeling than sitting in front of one curled up to someone you love.
Watching a 'fil-im' in Reg's living room in front of a calmly roaring fire as the smell of peat fills the air. For those of you who grew up in countries not filled with bogs I'll give you a bit of a lesson. Here in Ireland large parts of the landscape are taken up with Peat bogs which are regularly dug up and cut apart to be used as fire fuel. 'Turf' as it's known colloquially. Many times in the past I've made a pest of myself by poking fun at the "shortsightedness" of an island nation digging up its own sail and then burning it for heat. And while you might be envisioning environmental devastation and strip-mine like chasms in the Irish countryside I have been brought up to speed and now know that the bog regenerates itself in about twenty five years. So as long as they don't start exporting it in mass they shouldn't run out any time soon.
Now, I have also been informed that the process of building a 'turf' fire is a delicate one. Not so much informed as one would be if they dropped by the tourist bureau for a nice cup of tea, as I was scolded and told to put down the tongs whenever I fiddled with the embers. Most of my life starting a fire has been a simple process in which one gets a little paper, some small sticks, a big old pile of wood, and some accellerant; pile it up, pour it over, and add a match. Presto-Flame-o. The process in this much older part of the Atlantic involves first sifting through the coals to identify any living remnants of the last fire you had, after which one places a small piece of 'timber', I.E. a spare bit of wood about the size of a deck of cards on the ember then piles several logs of 'turf' on top. After which there is much blowing and with any luck the starter scrap will become alight.
While the fire may in fact be on at this point that does not mean it's ready for a quiet evening filled with cocoa and cookies. This is where the fires stops being a game of checkers and starts to seem more like Jenga with chess pieces for if one puts too many sods on the fire will fail to take off as it is being smothered but if you do not put enough on you will be left with too little heat with which to start a proper flame. If you do achieve ignition you run the risk of stoking too big of a fire and setting the chimney ablaze. The best way of dampening the fire is to put another brick of peat on top of the already too big flame, I know, I know, it sounds ridiculous but I promise you that this is how it's been done for ages. So to recap, you can't start a turf fire using turf, once it has started you can kill it with too little fuel or too much, if the fire does get too big then you add more fuel, which will make the fire smaller to the point of once again putting out the flames and having to start over again.
I've been saying and seeing that Ireland is a fairly straight forward and curvy country at the same time, up and down, left and right all at once. The Irish are intensely proud of their country and their nationality but it is expected that when receiving a compliment that you deny it as a first reaction, otherwise you are seen as being full of yourself. The roads will take you where you want to go, but first you must travel in as circuitous a fashion as possible. And even though it's a painstaking effort to build a fire, there's no more restful feeling than sitting in front of one curled up to someone you love.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
In Country
Day 3 in Ireland.
I was in Dublin proper yesterday. Reg had an appointment in the city and seeing as we're love drunk like sailors in a foreign port I naturally tagged along. We figured I'd go on a bit of a wander while she was occupied which, of course, excited me immensely as going to a semi-aimless wander in a new city is one of my favorite things to do while wearing clothes. On the train ride into the city Regina tried giving me a low-down on the city layout so I wouldn't get mugged or fall into an open manhole or be eaten by the Liffey River monster. Now, as I am male, I don't do well with directions. And seeing as Reg's Irish nature leads her to give directions in a highly relative manner, I knew I'd be on my own as soon as she popped into the office.
We hopped off the train and she asked me one more time if I knew where I was going. I vaguely consented and she left me on the street. Before you gasp and tut and wonder what she was thinking I'll have you know I've been in Dublin before, twice actually, the first time being on St. Padraig's day proper. But still, it's a big town and what with it being a medieval city does not lend itself to easy navigation. Nonetheless I pressed on down the street waiting to see something familiar by which to get my bearings. Coming around a long bend in the road I looked over to see Dame Street, the main drag in many ways. Instantly it clicked, the rumbling sprawl that is Dublin spread out before me as though a map was unfurling itself upon a great oaken table. I smiled and set out to explore what was already familiar.
In a lot of ways Dublin is a lot like any other big city, the traffic is incessant and tightly packed, the masses move in great waves along it's main arteries and yet in the side streets one can be alone in the chaos, you can buy anything you'd like as long as you can find a proper shop and the scent of a hundred restaurants bombards your olfactory lobes making you want to chow down on kabobs and gyros until you're too sated to stand. "Yeah," Eric said before I left. "All big cities are exactly the same." His note was one of mild cynicism and derision. "I guess so." I replied. "But that's kind of a nice thing. Chicago, Pittsburgh, Oakland, Austin, Dublin, Beijing, Moscow, no matter where you go I guess you're just going to find regular people; people who are a lot like you at the core of things. I think that unites us, makes us understand that we're connected on the most basic levels."
If you've ever traveled way out of your normal stomping grounds you'll be familiar with the phenomenon of 'Culture Shock' the symptoms of which are feelings of anger and isolation in your new surroundings. It's the strange adjustment period where your mind suffers a lag as it comes to terms with the new customs and taboos of your environment. When I came to Ireland years ago I though I'd be immune seeing as I am generally an open minded person who isn't too picky about food and climate and creature comforts. It wasn't until after I had left that I realized I went through a nasty bout of culture shock a month or so in where I began to pick apart everything that was 'wrong' with this country. I will admit, as you might expect, that I felt some trepidation concerning this trip. I am uprooted and have chosen to make myself a stranger, an anomaly and a man out of place. I'm trying to re-establish myself on the quick and start running in some ways before I can walk, I realized that the potential for failure is great and the consequences nothing to sneeze at. But all that, all of the doubt and worry, faded like fog on the bathroom mirror when I looked at the city and recalled it as keenly as I can the city of Pittsburgh.
Reg met me an hour and a half later with good news, I laughed my big, jowly American laugh and kissed her, I picked her up in a massive hug and spun her a quarter turn in the midst of the moving crowd, I held her and smiled and felt like I was in the right place in the universe at the very moment. That night we drank thoroughly and stayed in bed the next morning well past noon.
Tonight we are in County Ros Common at her family home. The Irish Country is truly beautiful and once again I am glad to be back in it. Well fed and felling welcome a hundred thousand times over we finished up our night watching a movie laying in each other's arms in front of a gently burning fire. I've never felt happier or more at ease with existence and I'd like to think the feeling will stay with me a while.
Slan for now, and I'll post some pictures when I shoot some good ones.
I was in Dublin proper yesterday. Reg had an appointment in the city and seeing as we're love drunk like sailors in a foreign port I naturally tagged along. We figured I'd go on a bit of a wander while she was occupied which, of course, excited me immensely as going to a semi-aimless wander in a new city is one of my favorite things to do while wearing clothes. On the train ride into the city Regina tried giving me a low-down on the city layout so I wouldn't get mugged or fall into an open manhole or be eaten by the Liffey River monster. Now, as I am male, I don't do well with directions. And seeing as Reg's Irish nature leads her to give directions in a highly relative manner, I knew I'd be on my own as soon as she popped into the office.
We hopped off the train and she asked me one more time if I knew where I was going. I vaguely consented and she left me on the street. Before you gasp and tut and wonder what she was thinking I'll have you know I've been in Dublin before, twice actually, the first time being on St. Padraig's day proper. But still, it's a big town and what with it being a medieval city does not lend itself to easy navigation. Nonetheless I pressed on down the street waiting to see something familiar by which to get my bearings. Coming around a long bend in the road I looked over to see Dame Street, the main drag in many ways. Instantly it clicked, the rumbling sprawl that is Dublin spread out before me as though a map was unfurling itself upon a great oaken table. I smiled and set out to explore what was already familiar.
In a lot of ways Dublin is a lot like any other big city, the traffic is incessant and tightly packed, the masses move in great waves along it's main arteries and yet in the side streets one can be alone in the chaos, you can buy anything you'd like as long as you can find a proper shop and the scent of a hundred restaurants bombards your olfactory lobes making you want to chow down on kabobs and gyros until you're too sated to stand. "Yeah," Eric said before I left. "All big cities are exactly the same." His note was one of mild cynicism and derision. "I guess so." I replied. "But that's kind of a nice thing. Chicago, Pittsburgh, Oakland, Austin, Dublin, Beijing, Moscow, no matter where you go I guess you're just going to find regular people; people who are a lot like you at the core of things. I think that unites us, makes us understand that we're connected on the most basic levels."
If you've ever traveled way out of your normal stomping grounds you'll be familiar with the phenomenon of 'Culture Shock' the symptoms of which are feelings of anger and isolation in your new surroundings. It's the strange adjustment period where your mind suffers a lag as it comes to terms with the new customs and taboos of your environment. When I came to Ireland years ago I though I'd be immune seeing as I am generally an open minded person who isn't too picky about food and climate and creature comforts. It wasn't until after I had left that I realized I went through a nasty bout of culture shock a month or so in where I began to pick apart everything that was 'wrong' with this country. I will admit, as you might expect, that I felt some trepidation concerning this trip. I am uprooted and have chosen to make myself a stranger, an anomaly and a man out of place. I'm trying to re-establish myself on the quick and start running in some ways before I can walk, I realized that the potential for failure is great and the consequences nothing to sneeze at. But all that, all of the doubt and worry, faded like fog on the bathroom mirror when I looked at the city and recalled it as keenly as I can the city of Pittsburgh.
Reg met me an hour and a half later with good news, I laughed my big, jowly American laugh and kissed her, I picked her up in a massive hug and spun her a quarter turn in the midst of the moving crowd, I held her and smiled and felt like I was in the right place in the universe at the very moment. That night we drank thoroughly and stayed in bed the next morning well past noon.
Tonight we are in County Ros Common at her family home. The Irish Country is truly beautiful and once again I am glad to be back in it. Well fed and felling welcome a hundred thousand times over we finished up our night watching a movie laying in each other's arms in front of a gently burning fire. I've never felt happier or more at ease with existence and I'd like to think the feeling will stay with me a while.
Slan for now, and I'll post some pictures when I shoot some good ones.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The big question
At this point I assume that most people reading this know me personally, but for those who just stumbled onto me I owe you an explanation as to why I, A native Yank, am going to Ireland in this, my 24th year of life. I guess there could be a fair few reason as to why I'm sitting in an airport terminal right now. Many of them are personal, many are dissatisfactions with life, both mine and the general condition of it on earth. But I'd prefer not to dwell on negatives at this point, as there is enough unhappiness and malaise in the world as it is, rather, there is one bright and shining reason I'm leaving my homeland today.
In the June of 2008 I was on a bus bound for Shannon Airport, I'd been staying in Galway for six months at that point studying in my final semester of college. On that bus withe me were Three people, my brother, who had come to see me and tour Europe in a whirlwind manner. Christy, my best friend who had chosen to come to Ireland with me over a similar school-sponsored venture in Rome which had been in the works since freshman year. And Regina, the Irish girl I'd unexpectedly fallen in love with. Reg and I sat hand in hand sharing a set of earphones and wishing we were anywhere but on a bus that would take me back to America. Our love was not easy to come by and not easy to live with, a complicated situation as I'm sure you can imagine. Just the night before, or perhaps it was in the morning, she had said to me, in Gaelic, that she thought she was falling in love with me. I don't speak Irish but I understood nonetheless.
On that bus it was difficult to say much of anything, with the future so uncertain, with our very existence seemingly coming to a close, what can you say that doesn't seem like empty small talk? What can you do besides hold on to each other and try to block out the rest of the world? "You know I love you, right?" I said, for the first time openly saying it, making what could have easily been a once in a lifetime tryst into something substantial. Reg looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes and shot me coldly, "Al, don't just say that because you'll never have to back it up." Hurt as I was I rebounded. "I said it because I thought I'd proved it already."
Thus, I've come back to Ireland to keep a promise, one that I've kept up for three years on now, the promise that love is real, it is powerful, and it is not something that should be allowed to wither and disappear from this world. Whatever happens in my life I'd like to go knowing that I never gave up on love, never ignored it, and never treated it as merely a word and a cliche'. I'm going to Ireland to love wholly and without hesitation, whatever else follows I know it will be pure because it was done in, and for Love.
In the June of 2008 I was on a bus bound for Shannon Airport, I'd been staying in Galway for six months at that point studying in my final semester of college. On that bus withe me were Three people, my brother, who had come to see me and tour Europe in a whirlwind manner. Christy, my best friend who had chosen to come to Ireland with me over a similar school-sponsored venture in Rome which had been in the works since freshman year. And Regina, the Irish girl I'd unexpectedly fallen in love with. Reg and I sat hand in hand sharing a set of earphones and wishing we were anywhere but on a bus that would take me back to America. Our love was not easy to come by and not easy to live with, a complicated situation as I'm sure you can imagine. Just the night before, or perhaps it was in the morning, she had said to me, in Gaelic, that she thought she was falling in love with me. I don't speak Irish but I understood nonetheless.
On that bus it was difficult to say much of anything, with the future so uncertain, with our very existence seemingly coming to a close, what can you say that doesn't seem like empty small talk? What can you do besides hold on to each other and try to block out the rest of the world? "You know I love you, right?" I said, for the first time openly saying it, making what could have easily been a once in a lifetime tryst into something substantial. Reg looked up at me with her beautiful blue eyes and shot me coldly, "Al, don't just say that because you'll never have to back it up." Hurt as I was I rebounded. "I said it because I thought I'd proved it already."
Thus, I've come back to Ireland to keep a promise, one that I've kept up for three years on now, the promise that love is real, it is powerful, and it is not something that should be allowed to wither and disappear from this world. Whatever happens in my life I'd like to go knowing that I never gave up on love, never ignored it, and never treated it as merely a word and a cliche'. I'm going to Ireland to love wholly and without hesitation, whatever else follows I know it will be pure because it was done in, and for Love.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Not long at all now
In less than eight hours I'll be boarding a flight for Dublin, Ireland. It's going to be a three month stay and if things go right it will be the precursor to a new life. This blog is going to be about my experiences, my thoughts, my struggles and triumphs. I hope it will make you laugh, and cry, and above all inspire you to chase your dreams like I've decided to chase mine. The only easy part about this will be getting on that plane, everything up to now has been an odyssey and everything after that will be a battle of my will against whatever forces in the universe conspire against man. The human spirit is stronger though and I set out to prove that. I thank all of my friends who have supported me at any point in my life and I look forward to the new faces and places I'll endear myself to. Until next time, Slan.
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