i am no writer, and it is scary to post this... here we go...
the bay:
i sat at the edge of the pier and the cold wind rolling in from the atlantic was cutting my face, making my eyes sting with debris, filling my nose with that disgusting and satisfying reek. i stood on one spot as long as possible. the biting air crept through my hair and woke up my skin. i faced it, took it all in. but the wind off the ocean had won, and i turned my back on it, ears stinging with cold. walk back to the town square. every building, every bench has a placard announcing gratification for the people who died, fought, and developed this place. and the statues. the statues could almost bleed with the oppression and triumph they were founded on. instead, they display a steady supply of bird shit. i sit. i watch. the wind is scratching at my neck. i move up one of the two streets that run through town.
coffee:
i stopped in a cafe for a latte. it’s the best one i have ever known.
and there he was. he was well shaven but his tangly black hair resembled a sea creature from another life washed onto shore to die. he was not unattractive, but he wore an expression that life had handed him an indescribable burden. he moved with purpose, ceremonially. coffee, cigarette, newspaper, repeat. i felt uneasy watching from so close. i lifted my book and peered from over the pages... ‘remainder of the voyage the better to ponder...’ the words fading out of focus so my eyes could survey the man again. he was slender, and his shoulders hunched. his grey-ish puke military coat looked like it had never been clean, sewn from fabrics already soiled. his boots were beige, accented with mud and grass that had never been washed off, but the laces were done up neatly, with a perfect bow. his general appearance was one of a person that might, someday, care about themselves again.
the waitress came with another coffee. he looked up at her and i could see his eyes were heavy and despondent, and as black as his hair. his nose was longer than it should be, and crooked in the middle. his lips were thin and pale. he took the coffee and rolled another cigarette. that’s when i noticed.
his hands:
the fingers were long, elegant, damaged. his knuckles were tumid and contorted. nails short, dirty and cracked. the maze of bones and blood vessels were protruding and aged him considerably. they were ashen and had seen a lifetime of, well... life. he rolled the tobacco with care, a waltz the fingertips had done countless times before. he lifted it and lit a match. his eyes closed as he inhaled. coffee, cigarette, newspaper, repeat. i wanted to know what they have known. warm cup of coffee in the rain, or cold bottle of whiskey. maybe the thick, bristly rope held to haul up the prize on a fisherman’s boat. or a lobsterman’s. the warm cheek of a woman he loved. his eyes, and the tears they produced. he looked up and i pulled my book closer... ‘evenings continued but merideth found them a trial and eventually...’ he looked away. coffee, cigarette, newspaper, repeat.
everything as he was in front of me, is everything i consider beautiful. sad and curious. i wanted to say something, anything, ‘hello,’ but i was like a puppet with my strings cut and i could not act. i paid for my latte and left the shop. but his hands did not leave my mind. i could spend hours drawing, perfecting these tattered things. hands that told stories. hands that held experience.
i wasn’t drawn to him out of lust or admiration, or mutual understanding of hardships. but he is the sort of man that attracts attention by making an effort to attract none. i found it alluring. i found it inspiring me to pick up my sketchbook again, a rarity. i turn the corner and check the time. two more hours until my ride back to east coomleagh. i half consider going back. no, it’s dumb.
book shop:
it is called ‘the bookshop.’ it is a small building painted black, the name printed in gold. it looked cozy, dark but inviting. anything to get out of the weather. i stepped in to find what i had imagined... wooden bookcases, novels stacked sideways and on top of each other, a small store. it was comfortable, but it was just as cold as the street outside. still, it was out of the wind.
the woman at the desk was fat, stout and had brilliantly orange glowing hair. her pink glasses hung about her neck from a silver chain, and while thinking she made a noise like golashes releasing your foot from the rubbery hell... ‘humph!’ i went to the history section. then the fiction. then the children’s, and the bargains. the shop was quiet, i was the only customer. i made my way toward the front with the intention of leaving when she stopped me. ‘can i help you find anything?’ ‘i’m not sure what i’m looking for.’ ‘here, just a minute now.’ she waddled to the back. i half expected her to climb onto a stool and reach for the very top shelf, where there would be a very old, dusty book waiting just for me. she came back with a clean, white covered book from the middle shelf. in green was a modern typeface ‘how to zest a lemon.’ i looked at her, the peachy little lady. her face made what i thought could be a smile, and she abruptly turned away and went back to her counter. ‘humph!’ i opened the book, tingling with excitement that all my questions about life would be considered within these pages, in this white book from the middle shelf, in the tiny book shop in the bay of bantry on the island of ireland. i was disappointed to find the introduction: ‘an introduction to basic cooking.’ some of the recipes included pudding, caesar salad, raisin bread and zesty lemonade.
the church:
i still had time to meander through town. up the street i could hear the deep, ambiguous sound of church bells ringing. i imagined the huge metal plate warping each time it was struck, and bellowing out in agony, only for the people to be reminded. reminded of what? church, i guess. god? maybe some use it as an alarm to remember to feed their cats. i walk toward the blubbering bells and find a huge, stone church with sturdy crosses and windows with bars. if all the churches should be assaulted in a hell-upon-everything-holy kind of attack, this church would be the last one standing. hands down. it looked more like a bomb shelter, each stone fitted perfectly against the next. even the crosses were brawny. there were no stained glass windows, or ivy climbing up the corners. it stood alone, and did it exceptionally well. i was cold, but i didn’t go in. i didn’t even take a picture. it is better leave it to my memory, so it can be distorted. what was once a sturdy chapel was now a castle on the defensive, was now a top secret headquarters for bible thumpers with government authority... my mind goes blank. back down the street into town.
caravan:
anya picked me up and we drove home while i told her about the different shops i went into. she told me about work, it was casual, cordial. we had wine, potatoes with mixed vegetables and, of course, fresh bread. i was tired from the work on the farm i had done previous to my trip to town. in my caravan i light a tea candle and climb under the thick, yellow, scratchy and hopelessly damp comforter. through one of the three windows i can see the moon. it is full, which is a lovely coincidence for my writing this tonight... it is bright, pristine, not like at home. the clouds around it look like ash, dirty and lightweight, floating. the tops of the trees provide a sort of table for the glowing orb to rest on, the leaves being the table skirt. it’s a show. the goats are complaining of the chill in the stable. i can hear which one is which now. a tape of russian violinist jan kalkman is playing in the house across the walkway. anya still loves him. his music is tender, sad... russian. i close the thin curtain tied up with strings and prepare for tomorrow, my last day of work on the farm. this weekend we will celebrate, then the next layer of my trip to ireland begins.
anticipation/curiosity/sunburn:
from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
