excerpt from my journal, last friday... scary...

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.

mounds... of fun

1. they should make a neolithic barbie and her dream tomb.

2. roly and catherine's family are.. AWESOME.

3. a real bed! with sheets! the shower gets hot and no bugs! HEAVEN.

4. i had a dream i was hanging out at truth tattoo and was trying to convince them to get goats and cats for advertisement... what?

5. burn in goat hell, jon! (not over it.)

6. really tired, like all the time, but bubbly.

7. i kinda miss frank.

8. saturday anya took me all over the coast we went on a huge adventure, will write more about it later when i have time, so fun, then we went to a pub saturday night to see 'traditional' music. they were playing johnny cash.

9. BULMERS.

10. love. love, love, love.

how to zest a lemon

1. anya is at work but brought me into town to spend some time away from the farm. i have 3 hours left.

2. coffee shop: the best cafe latte i have ever known. sprinkled with chocolate. yummers.

3. internet shop again. next, walk on the beach. dip my toes in.

4. this trip has been amazing. amazingly lovely, amazingly difficult, and amazingly i love everything about it.

5. i can do anything. i can be anything.

6. jon and i have not made up. burn in goat hell jon! (joke)

7. funky skunk: i walked in and BAM. incense. my first thought, of course, was 'wow mom would love this place.' it's like art dogs in reno, but better. 'this is our best bong' 'yeah, looks cool.'

8. book shop: 'need help finding anything?' 'sure what do you recommend?' hands me 'how to zest a lemon.'

9. a lot of people here are dutch. i know words like... klinken, danke, koosje and HALLO!

10. cliche: being on the farm makes me appreciate home so much. refrigerators and bathrooms and my cozy, clean little studio. and SOYMILK. oh, how i miss it.

11. there really is something powerful about america.

12. farmer boys: it's not like that movie p.s. i love you. hollywood you have fooled me again.

13. cheeeeeese!!!!!!!!!!! pure awesomeness.

14. pub: 'what can i get you dear?' 'pint of familiarity please. or a murpheys. yeah, definitely a murpeys. thanks.'

15. the last 5 days i have realized: i love me. i got this.

(~):}

limerick inspired (only not as totally awesome)

sitting in the conservatory sipping homemade wine
counting all the trees, leafy, broad and pine.

listening to birds and soaking up the sun
finger tracing flowers, each one by one.

my thoughts are blank, words are missing
and in the field the goats are pissing.

i look to the west, can almost see the bay
and rub the white sea shell i have stolen away.

the slugs suck the life out of every little herb
and eat the veggies and the petunias you planted as a surprise and climb into your boots and pillows and made the goats sick and are disgusting vile creatures made only to ruin everything beautiful...

everywhere is green, the flowers are golden
and here all alone i wish i could hold him (no. it just rhymes.)

laying and dazing and wishing for rain
here where it's quiet i feel no pain. in my lungs or my brain.

walking the reeds my soul is a-float
until i get head butted by the a-hole billy goat.

'time to eat oats!!' baa hannah and mo
this is the life. fo-sho. fo-sho.






today: walk in the woods. finish the bramble fence. pulling weeds. maybe more herbs in the conservatory. wine. quiche. dutch television (tonight is dutch room raiders on european mtv. oh yes.) yoga. russian violinist - so sad. AAANND....goat shit. always with the poopies they are.

pictures soon. hopefully.

oh yeah, names: mietre, annie, floppy, jon (butt head), toe, mo, hannah and klinche (call her black betty), snow, hara, and my very good friend coshe.

love you all, each and every one. except that one dude (joke!) <3 to all.

the milking begins

1. milking is harder than i ever expected. and it feels... weird. so weird. especially when you get a good... stream going, then toe (mama goat) goes 'BAAA-HAA-WAA-BAA!!!!' and you're like 'oh my god. i'm hurting a goats utter.'

2. rash: i got a bug bite three days ago the size of my fingernail on my neck. it started to spread a small rash. now the rash is all over my neck and down to my left shoulder. my glands are swollen. my throat hurts.

3. freckles: they. are. everywhere. i didn't notice until yesterday, i decided to treat myself to some lipgloss and BAM. freckers. on my cheeks, my neck, my shoulders and arms, and that spot between your collar bones. maybe too much time in the sun? i don't remember having this many. i like it.

4. jon head-butted me, yet again, so this time i challenged him back. that is supposed to show them where you stand in the hierarchy. also i feed him last. but this one particular time, last night, my wrist got caught between his horns and when he swung his head around it went 'POP!'... major ouch. it's fine, just bruised a little. i smacked his nose. he continued to eat. this morning he didn't touch me. maybe their noses are sensitive, like a shark. or that slug i poked with a twig.

5. this blog is rubbish.

6. started reading 'the beach.' very good.

7. anya and reinoud are the most hospitable strangers i have ever known. they go out of their way to make me comfortable, and keep me happy. reinoud said last night over some baileys and cheese 'there is a sadness about you. but, you came here to un-wind, and that is good, and this will be good for you.' ..... it is VERY good for me.

8. i say 'thank you so much!'. they say 'ok.'

9. i LOVE dutch television.

10. i thought about my brother today because next time, he should come with me.

11. mint tea: i go to the garden, pull some mint plants, throw them in a pitcher and add boiling water. voila. instant from the earth.

12. i made a bench, and painted it yellow with blue stars.

13. ingrid michaelson is what i listen to every day while working. everytime i hear 'woman from spain' i will think of feeding hannah and mo (baby goats).

14. anya and reinoud left for a small holiday for two days, so i must keep everything on the up and up.

15. someone just went 'BAA' *clunk*... time to check on them.

16. miss karma. a lot.

internet cafe in bantry town

i painted a fence. i watched the dutch version of american idol, called the x factor.

yesterday reinoud picked up new goats. one female (milking goat and mama) and her two babies. i got to name one, the black and white one with floppy ears is Mo. then, the white baby... HANNAH! i have a goat named after me in Ireland...

my hands hurt from working. i'm in an internet cafe at the moment.. the farm has internet but the connection dies after 3 minutes or so. it feels so nice to type again. i didn't think i would miss that from work.

Bantry town is lovely. small like Truckee, only a few roads through town. the church bells are ringing... ding dong ding dong. might stop by the pub for a murpheys, then some errands.

i haven't milked yet, but tomorrow we will start. also i made my own batch of homemade wine this morning. wowzers.

sometimes the dutch whisper in dutch... like i can understand.

the last 3 days have been sunny and clear skies and wonderfuly beautiful. only one good rainstorm. more rain, more rain, more rain!

i wonder if anybody reads this blog business... my guess is no. it's fun to write though. a place to collect my thoughts. i'm extremely tired today, in the best way possible.

time to pick up some oats for hannah and mo, then a walk on the beach so the dogs can swim in the ocean a bit, then back from Bantry to Glengarrif to... somewhere, the farm has no name.

life is good. <3

the farm.

1. i think i am the only person to go to ireland and get a sunburn. ouch.
2. the house is in a valley looking toward the ocean.
3. jon (pronounced yon) is an asshole goat.
4. i love it when toilets are in the same room as the bathroom.
5. planting is very peaceful. you hear the birds chirp, sheep and cows in the distance, the goats... i find myself not thinking, just doing. it's lovely.
6. a disease came to anya and reinoud's farm and they lost half of their goats, it was very sad. today reinoud is picking up new goats, and two of them are babies!!
7. let me tell you about the brambles. they are these HUGE thorny, evil, man swallowing plants that spread like mad. my job was to take the clippers, and clear a path through them. it was one of the hardest things i have ever done physically. when i was walking up the field toward the house i looked at my work and felt very proud. suck it, brambles.
8. jon is SUCH an asshole goat.
9. homemade wine.
10. i average 5 bug bites a day.
11. porridge, coffee, and fruit in the morning. cheese sandwiches with tea for lunch.
12. mayo on french fries...?
13. i had a dream i was drinking an ickys sitting on the porch of my caravan. i woke up with a slug on my pillow.
14. i miss karma. a lot. especially at night.
15. okay, he really is an asshole because he goes out of his way to head-butt me. he will turn around, walk towards me across the stable, head-butt me, then turn and walk away.
16. homemade wine.
17. the internet is iffy here. hope this posts. will try again once i go into bantry town.
18. love.

coffee in cork

okay, had a little bit of a rough start... but doin' ok, and the bruises on my shoulders are quite lovely when the sun hits them just right... damn luggage.

it's absolutely beautiful, it rained a little this morning while i was sleepin, now it's sunny and fresh. i'm in my hostel's kitchen drinking coffee, dreading hauling my crap to the bus station.

the church bells went off all night. 1:44...2:10...maybe every half hour? 2:15...3:00...3:23....4:00...i lost track.

the hostel is right next to the shandon bells, a church with a big golden fish on top. (look for the goldy fish!) my room is tiny and smells like socks but it sits right over an ancient grvaveyard. most of the headstones are laying on their sides, like neatly lined stepping stones into a forgotten space between buildings.

today i go to dunmanway to meet up with anya. a boy at the hostel told me dunmanway is "like country" and there is a famous mountain there that turned into a hippie commune in the 80's, and every once in a while the hippies come to cork to sell "...stuff." Sounds like i'm going to the right place.

time for some fresh air. ( i never would, MOM) but being here makes me want to have coffee and cigarettes while discussing something in gaelic on the porch.

i made a blog.

...i made a blog.