The Invitation Guidelines: Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen authors (poets included) who have influenced you and that will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than 15 minutes. Tag at least 15 of your friends, including me, please, because I'm interested in seeing which authors you choose. To do this, go to your Notes tab on your profile page, paste the rules in a new note, cast your 15 picks and tag people in the note.
Day 1: Travel was crazy. Even though it only takes 11 hours to get to Ireland from Los Angeles, three lay aways and one frozen over Dublin airport made the trek last 26 hours. Then after all that, we had to take a tour bus to Limerick from Dublin. At the very least, I got good rest during our challenging travels. That evening, then situated in our Mary I dorm rooms, we went out for Chinese food. The Irish apparently have a fascination with Oriental cuisine, go figure, right? Going out that evening with a lot of the girls really made me feel at home and started the trip off on the right foot.
Day 2: This is really like our first day in Ireland, since we got to wake up here and spend all 24 hours. Plus, there was the benefit of travelling verrrrrrry little. Today we took a walking tour of Limerick. Self-Guided and actually really rewarding. We saw King John's Castle, which gave us a brutal taste of the Irish uprising against the british. The castle reminded me of a fort I saw once in California. The best part, however, was reaching the tip top look out point and really embracing the beautiful architecture and natural landscape of the city. There are these amazing rivers and these ancient chapels that just take your breath away. After the castle, four of us made our way to a pub for lunch. I've become rathe smitten with a lager called Carlsberg, and the pub most definitely served it. Although I'll be eating a majority of my meals in the dormitory kitchen, I'm glad we ventured out for this meal. The seafood bisque I had was LITERALLY something to write home about. After my revolutionary bisque, we caught the Hunt's museum which had only an alright collection, but an amazing tour guide, and once we got home, I was far too tired to catch the Rugby game and thought that doing homework would prove far more fruitful an activity.
Day 3: We were originally supposed to head out to Dingle Peninsula today, but the snow stood in our way. Instead, we went out to Cork County and visited the Blarney Castle. Although this was my second time, I had a blast. It was almost more fun, actually. Not only am I older and more able to appreciate things, but last time I went the amount of people made us rush. Since it was snowing today, I got to take my time taking all the touristy photos my heart desired. Funnily enough, my tour book bashed the Blarney Castle pretty intensely, but not only do I find the attracition charming for its antiquity and campiness, but I also think the castle is gorgeous, particularly the surrounding gardens. On the way home from Blarney, we stopped at Cork and played on the peaceful gardens of an abandoned castle. The waterfalls and rivers surrounding the area were truly fantastic and it was nice to just walk around and enjoy nature. Luckily, that wasn't our last castle of the day. We also visited the Rock of Cashel today. The museum we intended to visit was closed, but the town was picture perfect. I honestly think it's where postcards are made. I felt adventurous and hiked up the mountain to find the best view I've ever seen. At home, we made dinner and bought a case of Carlsberg. Right now, I'm just typing away and enjoying the company of my new friends. In a half an hour we're heading out to the pubs and I'm already unbelievably excited.
Day 4: Last night really got this trip started. People in Ireland are truly special people. We went back to the local college townish pub, "Dolan's," but this time met the owner's son. Hysterically enough, he and I listen to the same music and had a lot in common. It was wonderful getting to know his perspective on American politics and music. Neil, and I quote, turned to me at one point in the evening in response to hearing about my time spent East Coast working with GCI, "One guy shags his wife, one's black, what's the fuss?" Wonderful, Neil, just wonderful. Or, as they say, "Brilliant." After spending some time listening to traditional music at Dolan's and having dinner, we went next door to Clem's and had a great time dancing, playing the juke box and talking to that pub owner as well. Sadly, I think the evening went a little too well, and waking up for my first day of class in over a month was rougher than it should've been. Class went really well, and it's wonderful to be excited about material and to be back reading literature finally. After class, Shannon and I did some exploring on foot. It started to snow and we were so excited, we hit the cement immediately and made snow angels. Later, we stopped at a liquor store and bought candy bars. The chocolate here is great. I can't wait to bring home a bunch!
Day 5: This day was jam packed. We went out to Adare, the prototypical postcard town. The town is famous for having thatch roofs and beautiful weather. The churches are classic and old and the entire town has their aire of peacefulness to it. Every few blocks, signs attempt to explain what life would've been like, but you get the feeling, words aren't enough. After doing all the touristy stuff, Shannon, Kelsey and I popped into a coffee shop and had a little snack before we headed out for a breathtaking river walk. Today, as always, was freezing, but the walk was invigorating. Things feel so alive here. After Adare, we bussed to Bunratty, the best castle we've seen yet. The castle was in wonderful condition and best of all was furnished. I don't know how many people I've already said this to, but standing on a 600 year old marble flooring really gives you an idea about value. On the walls hung the horns of animals that aren't even alive anymore, that have been extinct for hundreds of years. It was absolutely crazy. Matter of fact, I'm running out of appropriate adjectives. Surrounding the castle was a replica town of classic Irish homes. That was very interesting. We finished the day with a walk through the Adare Manor and Golf course. I thought of my dad every step of the way and thought of how great it would be to return with him later. The pictures I've been taking are sure to really excite him and Spencer, my brother.
Day 6: Today was actually pretty conventional, you know, for being a day spent in Ireland. (Ha!) I had class, took a jog into town, got groceries, napped, did a whole lot of homework, and then got finally and thankfully dragged back out to the pubs with the other girls. Tonight was actually really spectacular. We met these girls who were in love with the concept of California. When I told them I hailed all the way from Huntington Beach, they freaked out and sang "California," the theme song to "The OC." What a small world indeed! Tonight we also tried out their version of pool, billiards. The size differentiation on the tables makes it far more difficult than you think.
Day 7: Upon waking up, I immediately could tell it had been a week. I felt a little homesick and unfortunately it affected my bus. To add insult to injury, all the exciting things we had planned to pursue today had been cancelled due to the weather conditions and instead we spent 4 hours on the bus attempting to get anywhere and ending up nowhere. Eventually we threw in the towel and headed for Galway. We wanted to spend a whole weekend soaking in Galway, but if I had it my way, I'd spend months there. I fell in love upon immediate impact. The streets are alive with the life and hustle bustle of a true metropolitan but still marked with the charm and quaintness of quiet Limerick. The lights swaying in the streets from Christmas make it beautiful at night and the sound of traditional music floats freely in the streets shared by this pub and that. After putting away our things at the hostel, which I found quite accomodating, we headed out for Fish and Chips at the famous McDonaugh's. I was pretty pleased and I don't like fried fish, typically. The chips here! My God! But they charge for ketchup! What a joke, right? After dinner, we walked all over Galway's downtown. In 1963, JFK uniquely decided to visit Galway rather than Dublin; it lit the town on fire in a way that marks them as still recovering from the excitement. No wonder everyone in town is so friendly and accepting of Americans! After seeing many of the bars on foot, we settled into Teallany's and listened to music over some Guinness. Eventually, we left that bar for one I read about in my guide book. The second bar was my favorite as of yet; this adorable 5 Irishmen band played with such fervor and excitement, it made me feel alive and so lucky to be there. They played original songs, traditional Irish folk, and covers of American classics, i.e. Motown, Bob Dylan, and Elvis Costello. Tonight was a great night!
Day 8: The days keep getting better, and today is better than ever! We rented bikes and rode all over town. I may be forced into brevity by the sheer perfection of the day. On bike, we saw both Cathedrals of St. Nicholas. One of which is the oldest still in use church in all of Ireland, the other the most beautiful church I've seen thus far. The stained glass was phenomenonal and best of yet, they built a mural in 1963 of JFK praising God. You betcha your bottom dollar I got a picture of it, even though I had to crawl through the manger to get to it. We also saw the City Museum, which focused on three main elements of Galway life: JFK's visit, fishing, and the war time propoganda. It was interesting to compare US and Ireland recruitment posters. This day was wondrous!
Day 9: On the ride back from Galway to Limerick we stopped at the Cliffs of Moher and a few other ruined castles. Although I had seen these things before it was fun to revisit them with my new friends and with the added excitement of snow!
Day 10: Although Galway is supposed to be the party capital of Ireland, it wasn't until we came home from Galway that we really introduced ourselves to the party potential of this green island. Although nights like these can't be repeated on a regular basis, it was extremely fun to go out to the pubs we're now comfortable with and have fun and let loose. Lesson of the evening: Cider has an extremely higher alcohol content than beer; therefore, your numerical limits just don't work in this country.
Day 11: As I said, Day 10 was a little rough and I spent most the day lounging around the dormitory. Most would say it was a waste of this beautiful day, but it rained all afternoon and it was actually quite nice to read by a window and appreciate the scope of this nation. Near the end of the evening, we watched Angela's Ashes, which was super fun to see, since it was filmed entirely in Limerick. It got me so excited, I took a walk down to Dolan's and had some chips and bought a T-Shirt.
Day 12: Today was another excursion. Another day in Ireland, another beautiful city to be uncovered. We finally got out to the beautiful Dingle Peninsula that we've been struggling to make it out to since we first landed in Ireland. It's the most western part of Ireland and the interesting geology of it all makes it sunny and warm year round. The coastal view is gorgeous, as is the rock formation. Unfortunately, most everything was shut down for the seasons and it took a round trip total of 8 hours to get there and back. But, all in all, the pictures alone make it worth the trek. Later, we went out to a poetry reading in town at a local pub called The White House. The pub was adorable inside, looked far more like a coffee shop than a pub, and the poets were far more impressive and professional than the ones usually seen in American beat neck hot spots. I really enjoyed comparing their amateur poetry to that I find at home. Interestingly, they depend far more on meter and rhyme, which doesn't surprise me considering their mental canon of songs and limericks. Today was a real treat.
Day 13: So far, today has been wonderful. We started the day off with a tour of an inner-city, under priveledged school house. These kids are exposed to petrol explosions, cultural civil wars, mass prejudice, extreme weather, and impoverishment, but upon seeing 30 American soon-to-be teachers, their faces lit up like lightbulbs with the excitement. We got to watch them read, talk to their teaches, socialize with them, and even give a hand in the classroom. I loved watching their acquisition of two languages simultaneously and really respect their use of theory and methodology in the classroom. These teachers are also the guardians of trye Irish culture as well as the protector of their students' innocence, of their general well-being. One of the kids rapped for me, probably the highlight of my day. (Haha) He then of course broke danced as well. After the school day, we took a historical walking tour of Limerick, which left my feet freezing and my head a little overwhelmed. The amount of medievil architecture in Limerick alone is shocking. After the tour, I came home and took a massive nap, made myself a delicious dinner of spicy risotto, and am about to get ready to go on a massive pub tour.
One foot on her stoop, One key in the door, Kitty poured fire engine red, No-Parking paint, out from her insides, She emptied herself onto the street In front of thirty eight too-busy-bystanders, And disturbed no one.
Her neighbors gossiped on the phone, Cursed at black and white broadcasts, Tucked children into sheets, Kissed wives, washed their faces, Flossed, and prayed to God, While a twenty nine year girl was raped as she bled From the cuts carved deep into her palms.
With the TV turned loud, with responsibility thin, The neighborhood watch never gets rewound, And the sugar cups left unshared sour and stagnate, Neighbors, in-proximity strangers, can’t hear you scream.
Into the cavernous confines of your hollow mind, Into the echoing insides of your empty wallet, The therapist, the reporter, The watcher and I Dig deep,
Trying to decipher Any promising relation, potential association, Any, if at all, Possible connection Between the eighteen years of breadcrumbs Scattered and now, somehow, And for some reason, forgotten.
On the TV, they rumor. They speculate. They think You seem like that kinda girl, The type they’ve seen before, The type left Alone At night.
The Latch-Key-Kid-Special, they say.
Deserted too often, Ignored too early.
If your father Had been my father, I can’t help but think How mad he’d be To see your hand-cut filthy bangs Brush against my face. He would agonize over How and what I’d been eating, How and where I’d been sleeping.
So I need to know. You need to tell me.
What happened to your mother, Jane? Your father too? Did they get a chance To tell you what could happen To a girl like you, to any Once-Upon-A-Time-Girl Who, by chance, took an off-the-trail hike? Did they take the time to warn you? Take the time to tell you About cross dressing wolves and poison apple romance? Did she ever, even just once, Tell you a story About a girl Named Gretel Who found a nightmare waiting in the woods?
The networks They think they know your name now, Your first and your middle And although both fall on ears equally unrecognized, They repeat them just the same, Overlapping and rushed, One directly after another.
Hearing your name That way Makes me angry. Makes it sound like You’re in trouble, And it’s all your fault. Makes me worry that Regardless of what you remember, And what you don’t, You will never be able to explain how one night you fell asleep on the street, In the middle of Midtown, with no shoes and a dirty face, outside and cold, Stretched out on pieces of cardboard, dreaming.
Shaven Santa Clauses seem to shamelessly hide themselves In the liner notes of my late night lectures.
They've come to mock me and my Langston-like impressions of literature, Come to pose my pencil polemically, aiming it for the whites of book jacket eyes.
Targeting my kind of Mickey Mantles, my personal Jesuses of print, My role models of rhetoric, the legacies of my library.
Turns out, the university saves the worst for last, Shakespeare's faker than Alice Liddell’s ID. Wordsworth, a thief, and a bad brother too. Remember, Will, if you don’t ask, it’s not borrowing, it’s stealing,
And the same goes for hymens, dear Mr. Golding, Who liked to touch girls who hadn’t bled yet, in his backseat, Among piles of led stained mole skins. But what can one expect In a world able to kill off my favorite Beatle, the tooth fairy, and Mickey Mouse. Who, as of late, I hear hated Mamet, Roth and Ginsberg, among other Jews. FYI, Allen fucked Dean Moriarty, but the real one, And each time, was left all the colder and more lacking, Left with nothing but a poorly written “Dear John” and a shadily rolled joint.
At the very least, I like to think, (It is pretty to do so) That I would have loved Allen better, Although we both know he wouldn't have wanted me to, A starving artist wannabe, who, against her better judgment, Refuses to further populate Barnes and Noble book shelves With Anne Rice regurgitated vampire teen fiction.
But each day I hold out and withstand, I bounce more and more under-the-pillow-checks. Proving that perhaps the life of the poet, translator, and reader Was a poor choice. I am just about To exhaust my stockpile of Edgar Allen dreams within dreams, About to choke to death on my day job. Because all I want for Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa and Easter Is to dedicate leather bound pages to the man I love, To embrace Ernie and T.S. on the mountaintop, To read Moby Dick and write pretty prose. To sip lattes And romanticize William Carlos Williams, Ezra, and Gertrude too.
So, yes, I guess, In that regard, It’s not too bad to be a student Of words, a student of greatness, Of text and wonder.
The therapists, the reporters, The watchers, and me Dig deep into the confines Of your hollow mind and your empty wallet, Trying desperately to find connections Between the breadcrumbs left behind From 18 years you have somehow, And for some reason, forgotten—
On the news, they say your pretty mother died Young, and your father, so very typical, Bathed himself in the waters of whiskey.
But, if your father were my father, All I can think is how mad he’d be At seeing your hand cut, filthy bangs Brush against my face. He would agonize Over how I’d been eating, how and where I’d been sleeping.
So I need to know. You need to tell me. Before bed, did he ever bend down low and check For monsters? What of your mother— Did she ever sit up with you after bad dreams? Or were yours the type too busy to discuss Wockets, pockets, green eggs and ham?
The networks now they’ve found your name, Your first and your middle, both equally Unrecognized. They repeat them squished And ran together, overlapping and rushed.
It makes me angry to hear it that way. Makes it sound like you’re in trouble, And it’s all your fault.
I worry that no matter What you remember, you will never Be able to explain how one night You fell asleep on the street, In the middle of Midtown, with no shoes And a dirty face, cold, outside, and unfolded Stretched out on pieces of cardboard dreaming.
