A Wake of Discord
From coast to emerald coast
Irish lads, you’ve got some nice land on you! Nice, honkin’ tracts a’ land. You have been patient1 — to varying degrees — and difficult to understand. I’ve quite enjoyed it all!
I find myself caught between two impulses: the first being to shout, to all who might hear, of the implausible beauty there to be found, and of the people who—though people, yes—seem less something in some meaningful way. The second impulse is one of fear: fear that I might be a rube; a simpleton; a dumb American hick, if you will; someone who observes the slightest aesthetic difference from my own home and is suddenly enlightened, a world traveler, cultured even! And how.
Oh well! Here’s a collection of miniature blog posts inspired by my time on the Emerald Isle.
The view from the top of Cardiac Hill, poorly recorded for your leisurely pleasure
How to Hike
My sisters2 don’t quite know how to hike.
This is strange to me because it’s so self-evident: a mode of operation which all the incentives and disincentives of the thing inherently lead one to. It’s all very simple and easy and natural: just good lord SHUT THE HELL UP. You’ll love it!
It’s not really about the fact that we’re Americans and your laugh is American and it can be heard for probably miles. Very annoying! Don’t want to be associated with it. But truly, beloved kin, that’s not what it’s about.
You’re missing something, here.
There is something it is to be one of us: among those born into the Age of the Noise. An omnipresent buzzing; some intrusion into every moment which might otherwise contain peace; the ever-permeating reachability of that into which your eyes were once the only window. Yes, there is something it is to be Man - here and now - and it really, truly sucks and is getting worse. So take what you can get while you can.
There is a kind of thing which brings comfort, and I’m sorry, but it’s destined to look like the jungle. It is fated to be green. It is bound to match that which our ancestors learned were signs of peace and of harmony: the sights and the sounds and the ambience of an ecosystem at balance and our certain place within it. The smell of trees, motherfucker.
Hiking - particularly if challenging - lends itself quite well to shutting the hell up. One must pay attention to where they are stepping, lest they fall; keep an eye on what is above them, lest they thwack into a branch or overhang; focus on one’s breath and pace when climbing up a steep, unending set of stairs. This makes it difficult to think of clever quips and references to the television, and sister, that’s great. Fantastic, even. Lean into it.
It doesn’t much matter what you think about. The mind wanders; let it. It’s no sin to find yourself thinking of taxes, necessarily. I myself have spent a good ten minutes pondering whether it’d be worse to encounter a man-bear or a bear-man out in the woods. The most important thing, I think, is to stop performing. Here is a place where you are neither capable of nor expected to be the most interesting thing! Where continued silence is a necessary substrate as opposed to a malady which demands a zinger to fix.
Marvel, loved ones.
Real blink-and-you-miss-it-ass country
Friendly
Which of these trains goes to Limerick? I ask myself, more concerned than the last time I wondered this moments ago. Shit.
The translation app on my phone and my general adaptability are beginning to fail me. Everything is written in both Irish and English, and my phone isn’t sure which to translate. The people have become slightly yet certainly less friendly and welcoming as I travel further from the places which have remade and warped themselves for my delight. A hint of fear, unbecoming a competent man who has navigated far harsher challenges, burns in my belly nonetheless. How the hell do I get to where I’m going?
“Limerick?” I ask the brisk woman; pretends not to hear. “Limerick?” I offer the group of well-dressed men, and in return they offer a false promise that they have no cash to spare. “Limerick?” I ask the woman whose eye I have caught; and she struggles but fails to break free; and, recognizing her defeat, sues for peace. “Limerick?” she says and “Limerick!” I cry. She scans the screens and points to a train which I gratefully board.
I take a seat across a young Korean woman at the far end, tactically focused on her knitting. She doesn’t acknowledge me, and I take little offense at that which is no surprise.
Across the lane sit four Americans — three women and a man; and the nose on him, my god… — speaking loudly and cheerfully; letting out laughter without care; filling this foreign space with imported luxury American Voices. The man, using words I cannot recognize but instantly know, shushes them; and they speak quarter-quieter for no longer than a few seconds. They’re back to the guffawing, now. The eyes of one of the women dart away sooner than mine meet them.
The fear wells once more.
Out is pulled my phone and opened is the translation app. This train goes to Limerick? I type in my native language, and symbols appear which seem largely correct: “The train is going to Limerick.” I encroach across the aisle and hand the phone to the woman sat beside the man-who-will-betray. She takes it; reads it aloud; they begin to argue.
Each of them clearly views the others as knowing not what the hell they’re talking about. They squabble and doubt and search things on their own phones for some time; I hear the word “Limerick” many times, each with a finger pointing in a different direction: first down at the ground, then in the direction of travel, then at me, then at themselves and nobody in particular. I conclude that I am solemnly fucked, and the man must have reached a similar conclusion as he motions for my phone and makes tapping motions. I hand my temporarily most-critical possession to this stranger.
He taps and types and hands me back a question - at least I think it’s a question - I would be better able to tell if he hadn’t selected GODDAMN JAPANESE as the language; of course: they’re Americans; I’ll get over it.
“Chinese.”
“Oh. Ha. Apologies.”
He corrects his mistake and I correct the angle of the glasses on my face.
“[You are trying to go to Limerick?]” says the man through the phone.
I nod vigorously. They argue once more.
“[This train is going to Limerick. We will tell you when it arrives.]” is tapped onto my phone, finally returned to my hands. The fear subsides. One of the women offers me her phone charger to use.
“You are very friendly!” I offer, almost surprised to hear my own surprise. They laugh and agree and we largely keep to ourselves for the rest of the trip. I find myself ensnared by the window and more importantly what’s beyond it: an unending stream of green and serenity and, ah, there’s a petrochemical plant but it’s quite alright because it’s rapidly replaced by yet more natural treasures.
I get up at what I’m quite sure is my stop, eagerly encouraged by the Americans as they point to the door and smile their silly smiles. “Limerick” they say and “thank you” I reply. I step off with a smile, a confidence of direction, and a refreshed belief in the innate goodness of my fellow man.
The doors close behind me as the American man shares his parting words:
“I don’t think this is Limerick”
I’m pretty sure my phone applied some pretty obscene sharpening filters to “improve” the quality of my videos and photos. Hate it. Loved this boat ride though.
We’re in the company of Rory - a fine man; the future husband of my sister, barring his thoughts on the matter - as he guides us, surely as grass is green, to where we’ll begin the day’s journey.
Shallow water demanded that this Man - the muscles! - tow our boat by hand. We boarded once more before being shortly deposited, safe and sound, a new father figure firmly implanted, ready to begin our hike.
Rory deposited us on a shore; and that shore birthed a path which took us to a hill; and at the top of that hill, at the base of the hill yet to come, was a cafe; and at that cafe, we purchased a meager sandwich each, the provisioning of which was oh-so-inefficient; and that was a really good sandwich, I tell you. Then we set off for the miles to come.
The Man With the Dispelling Face
There once was a man with a ticket so onto the glass he did stick it. She let out a ping; her doors, see them swing! And it's here that the poem must pivot. For he was not alone, this man far from home: his oh-so-loved crone just behind him. She's taking her turn, for ne'er would she spurn the ways of the ticketing system. But lil' did she know, for no signs were shown, of the belligerent man behind her. First spied by my eye as my wife failed to fly through the turnsti'. he screams out a sigh. Mistake not his face in this fair place: no nature of good here be found. His heart filled with rage and he rattled her cage and a lesson her brain then writ down: We are much the same, for good or for shame; we have rules and we'd quite like them followed! It's quite hard to know (if no one will show!) how to grant the respect they are "owed." Maybe he went back to his family of three and shared with them all of his shame. Or perhaps he'll still say to all in his way: AMADÁN! MOVE, BITCH!
We trekked for some time at a shallow uphill clip, our fellow boat-travelers passing us in their carriages here and then there. We were the only tourists of the day who had opted to trek the seven miles from where we were dropped off to where we would be picked up only two hours later. Rory and the man in his radio were relieved to confirm that “the walkers” were, by the looks of it, Not Old.
The hill steepened.
One of my elder sisters is explaining the depths of her affection for the Irish affectation to our yet-older sister. A local man passes us in his bicycle; we later find him by the side of the road, munching a sambo3 and delighting in the view.
We passed a broken home and took a picture of it. I tried and entirely failed to imagine what it may once have felt like to be part of the community or family which purpose-built this structure.
We later passed a similar building which had met less kind a fate: boarded up and locked tight; graffiti boorishly sprawled; trash bags and rot-cots visible in the dark, through the cracks.
I spotted a natural window and, of course, was duty-bound to take a picture of it. My wife would never allow me to miss such an opportunity.
The others begin to convince themselves that we’ll be late to the pickup.
I was abandoned, there, in those mountains; by wife and by kin. Certain of our impending lateness, they rushed ahead to make and - per promise - hold the bus. I felt no such fear. More natural windows await!
Shit, son.
There’s something about coming across a goat gnoshin’ a tree that just tickles.
We arrived - one sister and I - at precisely the time we agreed; and I even had time, at my leisurely pace, to snap a picture of this plant. Check it out.
I Think Dublin SUCKS
Galway a little bit, too.
This city is not charmed. I feel it in the existence of a tourism industry. I feel it when I am overcharged by a corner store operator, seizing his opportunity to extract a few dollars from a man he knew wouldn’t press the issue. I smell it in the sewage smell in our AirBnB, and in the existence of such a thing as an AirBnB. Much that might be is lost, for few now live who would fight for it.
Our town has, like, 20 hiking stores, you know? opined the elder bartender sister in Galway; indistinguishable but not twins with her twinned younger sister; making a great point.
But the rot is known by its contrast against that which is rotting: something vibrant and beautiful and content. There is necrosis, yes: the same willingness to sell a thing of priceless value for so low a bounty; an eagerness to use the term “Irish” in window ads to appeal to me and not to themselves; but the body may yet be saved.
Listen: people are not so different from one another. I know nothing truly of a society I paid to entertain me for a week. I am grasping at the shadow of the hint of understanding, and my hand meets only air. I know all of this. The thing of it is: I just really, really like drawing conclusions.
My conclusion for now is that County Kerry is a place of bountiful beauty and I mourn the certain coming extraction which will define its fate.
There’s something delightful and terrifying about winds so strong that you can run in place against them. To discover what happens when an unstoppable force meets an incredibly movable object.
There were signs up claiming that the fence to the left was electrified, but I don’t know about all that. That seems highly irresponsible! This path is not as wide as it seems in this photo! A single American girl — a self-described “big dumb American in everyone’s way” — was sufficient to block traffic for a few oblivious minutes. Surely people would accidentally be zapping themselves constantly if such a thing were true!
Do You Know How Big the Sun Is?
I was in the connecting American airport, ready to be home, and I purchased some Pringles at an exorbitant price from a woman in whom could be found a profound nothing of conscientiousness. I also bought a water bottle, if you must know.
JFK is a kind airport and offers tables - tables, mum! - a fair amount, even - for free, if you can bring yourself to dare to try to believe it. I spy a candidate from afar and head towards it, delighted to find a spot to plop down and finish this post.
It soon becomes clear that there is a reason this table was mostly empty: because it quite wasn’t. A gaming laptop, its monstrous charger and its overspread cable, and - yes - a mouse and a keyboard, full sized of course, and my god, a fucking podcaster microphone, is occupying a solid two-thirds of the table. The owner is nowhere to be found.
I plop right on down and begin to fail to write. Mostly, I wonder at just who the hell does this. I delight in the delectable sneer.
Little time passes and less of value is written before the answer to my question returns and, ah, I might have known. A real… uh… systems engineer kinda guy, you know? A bit of a Type-A if you catch my drift. A man… heh… diagnosed with autism, you might say. The sneer makes way for shame and a slight resentment at being robbed of the (again, delicious) opportunity to judge and to righteously bemoan.
He’s making his way slowly over, one foot methodically placed in front of the other, arm outstretched and thumb stretched out, speaking to what I’m still only half-sure is himself. Each step he counts aloud as a full meter — the last step he counts as three — as he compares the relative size of something on his laptop screen to the size of his thumb, quite content with whatever the hell this is.
“Hey, I’ve actually found a table that you can have all to yourself!” says the hero of our story as he strides into scene. “Can I help you pack up and head over?” continues the man I will be compelled to compare myself to for the rest of my life.
“Okay thank you! May I first show you what I am working on?” replies the man you should feel bad for judging earlier.
“Oh, sure, okay.”
For the next six minutes and I assure you I tracked it, this man stands in the instructed position “seven meters” away, as our junior astronomer educates him in the ways of the size and magnanimity and the raw, masculine power of the sun.
“Do you know how big the sun is?”
“Oh, not really!”
“Well if you hold out your thumb you can see on my screen that the sun is actually bigger than your thumb! At this distance from the screen, the sun is the same size it would be if you were on the surface of Venus!”
“Oh, wow”
“If the sun were a basketball, the earth would be…”
“Oh no, really?”
“And you can see if I fly over to Jupiter…”
“Wow, you sure know a lot!”
“Do you remember when I told you how big the sun is?”
“I sure do!”
“Hold out your thumb again because this time…”
Generous was this man with his Uh huhs and limited Wows and the sheer No ways of it all. Perhaps I’m projecting: maybe he truly held in his heart and mind a genuine curiosity and interest in his fellow man. It’s possible he truly appreciated the lesson in the ways of comparing one’s thumb to the size of a digital sun. It’s entirely reasonable to think that there was no sacrifice, here, and I'm a plain asshole wondering at the good nature of those who are not like me.
“I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry that Mr. Mean came out.” he says to the Man and to the female airline employee behind the desk. She forgives him, and anyone could tell that she means absolutely none of it yet understands that she cannot have her desired revenge.
I aspire to this man.
laff
I am ashamed to admit that I kind of thought that swans’ necks didn’t go this straight.
Huffing the Glue That Binds
I am fond of this favorite joke of my grandfather’s, best told in person with his natural charm and knowledge of the actual way the joke goes, but here I am and I’ll do my best:
There’s a small town in the middle of Illinois; pretty decent place in a lot of ways, economy’s not too bad, not much crime. And this town has basically one road coming in or out; everything goes through just this one road.
So, the town some time back got together and decided to put a welcome station on this road on the way in to town; basically like a toll booth but just to welcome or provide information to tourists or people moving in. So they have a guy working there and every so often someone comes by and asks him a question or for directions and he just helps ‘em out.
So, one day, guy’s working his morning shift and a minivan pulls up carrying a family of three. The man driving the van says, “howdy; we’re Bob and Carol and this is our son Jim!” and they ask for a map; man gives ‘em a map; then they ask for directions and the man, you know, he says, oh, there’s the grocery store on First and a hardware store across the way. Then Bob says, “thanks! By the way, what are the people like in this town? We just came from Northville down the way, and the people there were just wonderful! Couldn’t ask for better neighbors; they’re generous and kind through and through!”Man in the booth thinks about it for a bit and says, “you know, I think you’ll find that the people here are much the same! If you’re in trouble, they’ll surely lend a hand!” Bob and Carol thank the man and drive on to their new home.
Man in the booth goes back to his job; most people just drive on by him but every so often someone’ll pull in and chat for a minute or two. Few days later, another minivan rolls in with a family of four looking for directions. Man in the booth helps them out.
Guy driving the van says, “hey, thanks. By the way, what are the people like in this town?”
Man in the booth stops and thinks for a second and says, “well, what were the people like where you came from?”
”Oh, they were just the worst!” Guy says. “Bunch of rotten, no-good, lying scumbags I tell you. Everyone is rude and impolite!”
Man in the booth nods and scratches his chin and he says, “you know, I think you’ll find that the people here are very much the same the way!”
I spent much of this trip and this blog overly concerned with our and others’ discordant presence. It’s a wonder, really: how easy it is to be in the way at all times.
But you get what you give, and more to the point, you’re offered what you obviously expect. Perhaps there is something wrong, actually, in a neurotic obsession with getting out of the way and not seeming out of place. Maybe an observable belief in the charity and goodwill of those around me is a prerequisite for its existence.
And maybe things aren’t quite so bad as my breaking heart would lead me to believe.
Or perhaps afraid of our guns, which makes sense because we brought all of them and are strapped, I tell ye.
That’s what the Irish call sandwiches. Don’t know what to tell ya.