Welcome Edith

Some people just aren't dog people. Those people are not very happy with me right now and I don't much care. They say things like, "How can you take care of two dogs? How can you afford it? Telemachus likes being alone. You aren't home as it is. You make irrational decisions."

Here is my reply. Look at my new little baby's face. Dogs are pack animals. I was never home because I worked full time and earned an MFA (one in which I traveled to four universities) in 3 years (Thanks mom for helping out with Telemachus). I'm broke...there will be no more summer long backpacking trips for quite some time. I'm a writer so that means most of my time is spent right here in this very apartment. I am my mother's only child and look how messed up I am. Telemachus needs a sister (hopefully not a girlfriend).

In all seriousness, I know those non-dog people will come around the minute they set eyes on this new beauty. And who wouldn't love a dog named after Edith Piaf? I should train her in French. The only problem is that though I spent some time in France a few summers ago, I can only say things "I would like some red wine. I would like some white wine. I will have the special of the day. Thank you."

As for Telemachus, he is not quite sure about Edith yet. I only pulled the above picture off with some bribing. I do have confidence that they will soon be the best of friends. My intent was to rescue a dog...what could be more special? However, most of the dogs at the places I searched were too big for apartment living. Pugs are a bit different from other dogs and as much as I love Pit Bulls, I just didn't think it was right for Telemachus. So now I have two babies who will climb into the bed using the doggy steps and keep me up all night with their snoring. Does life get any better than this?

This definitely isn't County Clare

I imagine that for the next few weeks I will compare everything to my recent time in Eire. My first "back in the states" event consisted of driving in a '49 Plymouth to Dragway 42 for "Rock and Race." Drag racing seemed like a good thing to get my mind off Irish village life.


There were no Gregory Flynns or Paddy Flanagans to tell me stories. No one said slainte while slamming a pint glass against mine. Actually, no glass was allowed, but I was in good company. I do believe everyone needs a little rockabilly music.


Good music is good music. A spinning bass and a Johnny Cash song (performed by the The Hot Rod Hucksters) isn't quite the foot stomping fiddle playing that happens every night at McGann's, but for some reason, though my cliche wannabe Irish heart hates to admit this, I knew I was home when in between each Hot Rod Hucksters' song someone screamed out "Free Bird...Free Bird." A little Skynyrd never hurt anyone.

Leaving Ireland and taking a borrowed book with me...

My chef friend let me borrow the book Notes by Irish poet Peter van de Kamp. The chef doesn't know it yet, but I just don't see how I can part with this book, especially since I am leaving Ireland. I can't tell you what I think of the book as a whole because I keep getting stuck on the first poem. It has thumb smudges and Guinness droppings all over it. Check it out. Enjoy!


Return

If, on a sultry night,
You flutter past my porch
Into the light of my living,
I'll save you from the scalding.
I'll elbow the lighswitch off,
Face the moon,
Elbow french windows shut;
And hands still in prayer
Entombing your tremble
(sinuous as venial sins
flicking walls of the chapel
before their confession)
Will spread in supplication
For your dark flight.
And I? I'll go back in again,
Switch the light back on,
Read a book, maybe,
Or maybe watch TV.

-Peter van de Kamp

Where I live and what I live for....

The Cliff Walk

It was a beautiful day in County Clare for a walk along the cliffs. Though I had my hood up because of the wind, my face got sunburned. Everything here sorta looks like the Shire and though I am surrounded by people in the evenings, I sometimes feel a bit lonely like Frodo.

And for some silly reason, I can't stop weeping. I think I may need to lay off the Neruda. These cliffs mixed with a little Pablo...and my 31st birthday around the corner=weeping. Good weeping, though.

Doolin

Kelli and I had a great night in Dublin on the 26th and now she is back home safely in Ohio. After sending Kelli on her way, I took a bus (or several) to get back here to my favorite place, Doolin in County Clare.

Jacquie and Greg are wonderful company and the amount of fun I have been having is insane.

I have made a friend who is a chef at a little cafe about a mile from where I am staying. He makes wonderful meals that look like something that should be in a fine dining magazine. I drink coffee, eat hummus and asparagus, do a little writing, gaze through the window at the countryside and pretend I'm never leaving.

The chef also enjoys writing so we have started a notebook that allows us to write back and forth.

I think I could sit in that cafe forever.

Today I am going to walk to the Cliffs of Moher. It will take me a few hours, but Jacquie works at a shop on the top so I will catch a lift back with her. Yesterday a man jumped. It took over twenty men to pull his body from the water. I think that makes four people this month, but I'm not sure.

Despite the sad news of suicide, I am looking forward to a tough climb and one breathtaking view.

Thoughts from the Peninsula

Yes, that says Telemachus. Today is Telemachus' 3rd birthday so even though I am very far away from him, I found it an appropriate time to write his name in the sand somewhere near Slea Head on the Dingle Peninsula.

Happy birthday, Telemachus. I know you can't quite read or even understand why your mother has left you for five weeks, but I love you, love you, love you.


Kelli and I have been having a great time. We have invented two clever games. One of the games is called Quicksand and is pictured above. The object is to see who can sink the deepest without being swallowed. The other game is called Jellyfish. This game requires that you run towards a jellyfish. Whoever gets the closest without getting stung is the winner. Jellyfish is a bit tricky because of the rough waves. You must get as close as possible to the blobs of blue tentacles before a wave thrashes the beast against your Ohio leg.

I have not written much, but I picked up three books yesterday (great way to make the backpack heavier) that are absolute treasures. All of the books are by Blasket Island writers. The Great Blasket is an island where people lived practically untouched from the modern world until 1953 when the remaining 20 people or so were evacuated. The books I picked up were written in Irish around the beginning of the 20th century and translated into English around the middle of the century. One of them (the name escapes me this very moment) is written by the last poet to leave The Great Blasket.

What strikes me as haunting about these books is that when these people were writing them they knew that their way of life was diminishing. Every sentence is smeared with a sense of loss. The sea gave them life yet also imprisoned them in some ways.

I have been trying to take a boat to The Great Blasket Island, but the wind has been too harsh. Tomorrow is my last shot. Wish me luck. I need to see where these people lived.