July 9, 2010, Mixed Buttons

There are few things that interest me the way antique stores interest me. I get a certain high sifting through junk that may or may not be the treasure that makes the day unique. Katie and I stepped into a dark doorframe, trying to escape the rain splattering from the gutter above our heads. I guess it was more of a squeeze and an awkward shuffle than a step, as there was already a man in the doorway and the subsequent room was no wider than the doorframe. But once inside, the dimly lit clutter started to reveal itself. Cases of shiny, dingy, jeweled, cracked earrings, rings, necklaces, and bracelets underneath boxes of cards, buttons, and engraved stamps guarded a small woman with fading red curls and black rimmed glassed on a chain around her neck. The sheer amount of stuff was impressive. Especially considering she had only been collecting antiques for six years.

I haven’t always loved antique shops. In fact, I used to hate them. The musty haze that seems to surround everything made me feel like I needed to shower. And after exploring enough antique stores, it seemed that the term antique may be more of a euphemism than anything— a very kind euphemism. But my feelings have since changed. While it’s hard for me to frequent local thrift stores on a regular basis, I have a different kind of appreciation for visiting secondhand shops in unfamiliar towns, cities, and now, countries.

My hand was drawn to a box filled with buttons, the metal discs attracting my bones like a magnets. Tracing the raised patterns in the brushed brass, I started to get really excited. The day I got to Ireland, my jacket systematically began losing its buttons, one by one. I watched the last one dangle from its thread, clinging for life, until I finally decided to cut it yesterday, tired of waiting for it to make up its mind. This isn’t necessarily a huge problem, but walking around rainy Galway can be gusty at times, and these buttons promised a unique solution.

After meandering around the piles of old instruments, leather luggage cases, carved pipes, stacks of photographs and copies of old newspaper pages, I was prepared to make my purchase. Not only were the vintage army buttons practical, they were little pieces of Galway I could keep, pieces of Ireland to take home with me.

July 7, 2010

[A good friend of mine has recently introduced me to a style of short stories called “Worders” that consist of 100-200 words that aim to focus on a singular moment. The foreword quotes Joyce’s idea of the “epiphany—a shout in the street, the overheard conversation, the tap on the window late at night, and even the joke.” This is what I tried to channel in the following creative short story.]

She had no idea where she was. The cold tile cradled her throbbing head until her vision leveled out. The white curve of the porcelain bowl slowly came into focus. She started to realize the wall nearest her head was only a foot tall, and belonged to a bathtub. A cold sweat blanketed her ashen skin. She would have stood up and ran if her muscles had any life left in them.

“These buildings don’t have roots.

These buildings don’t have roots,” she mumbled under her breath, eyes squeezed tight against the fluorescent glare.

He knocked. She knew it was him by the timidness in his fingertips. The liquids in her veins grew hot. Or was it the ones in her stomach?

She let him slide next to her, as she nestled in the crook of his shoulder, eyes squeezing out hot drops of salty. She tried to remember that her constructions were not permanent. Or even necessarily true. The buildings she created, the towers and castles and apartments that felt like home during the daylight weren’t grounded in anything other than her mind. The night she told him that his love was stifling, was eating her self-esteem alive, he looked at her like she was crazy. He said her words didn’t make any sense; how could loving someone be crippling them?

But she hadn’t had the courage to explain. To explain that it wasn’t his love that was crippling her, but the conditions on which he loved her. The thought of losing her best friend because she wasn’t in love with him had driven them apart.

She wanted to stay apart. But their lips met.

His kiss said, “I’m sorry.” Her kiss said, “I’m scared.”

Her hand trembled on the smooth, lifeless tile. Maybe this building would crumble too, if she willed it hard enough. Maybe she could rip it right out of the earth, exposing the hole it was built over. But this building had roots.

July 4, I hope that someday I'll see without these frames-- Daylight, Matt & Kim

“Its like a different world in Killarney,” said my dear friend Katie, only slightly exaggerating the truth we could all feel. Only a few days ago I was complaining of being restless in Cork, pleading to see more of Ireland. My wish was granted.

The streets are smaller, the sidewalks cramped with tourists. Instead of empty office building space, hollow and violated with spray paint, each storefront has well-maintained character. Horse and buggies litter the citycenter. Ice cream shops alternate with colorful pubs down the two main roads. But people seem less friendly here, for some reason. Maybe it’s the insane amount of curious visitors, or the impending football match that has people in frenzy, but I get the distinct feeling that no one in Killarney is actually from Killarney. Not being able to feel what life is like here troubles me more than it probably should. But I have a quiet, yet relentless voice telling me that I need to move to Ireland, rent a peach colored flat, and understand what life is like beyond the characteristic rolling green hills and boisterous nights downtown.

As I soaked in the bathtub this morning for the first time in years, I realized that, so far, my strongest connections in Ireland have been with food and pubs. Besides the fact that this realization mildly depressed my otherwise wonderfully relaxing morning, it occurred to me that this is probably a normal situation for a student/ tourist traveler. Honestly, I haven’t been exposed to much else. As much as I try to soak in history lessons, appreciate crumbling ruins and say more to locals besides “I’ll have the chicken. No onions, please,” I just haven’t given myself the opportunity to learn what living here is really like. The castles and ruins hardly inspire anything except a sadness and an uncomfortable awareness of how temporary life is. It seems that people are more disposed to talk when certain beverages are greasing the axles of conversation. Which, unfortunately, has it’s own drawbacks. Not to mention, journaling in a tub of lukewarm water doesn’t give me much more insight beyond the harshly lit bathroom.

Baths are weird. I always feel exposed at first yet slowly get a strange sense of security, like a weird liquid blanket. I watched my toes sink and peek through the surface because I couldn’t feel the difference between the water and the air anymore. I want to be immersed in Ireland. I want to know what it feels like growing up in an Irish household, going to class in an Irish school system, understand the issues beneath Irish politics, the emotions fueling Irish films and literature and comedy. I want to forget that I’m visiting, even if just for a minute.

The water kisses my stomach and leaves a little bubbly ring underneath my bellybutton. The water felt warm; I felt covered, like I was being protected. But, its completely transparent, down to the bottom of the white linoleum tub. Safety blankets, even weird liquid ones, are probably just what they sound like: momentary warmth. But they aren’t an excuse. They aren’t a solution. They aren’t life. They just help us get used to the water. Or help us float until we can’t tell the difference between the water and the air. (551 words)

July 2, His & Hers

In general, I am a bigger fan of documentaries than of traditional Hollywood movies, so my reaction to His & Hers may be a little biased. The subject matter tends to be treated more sensitively and creatively in documentaries instead of relying on cheap gimmicks and sensational footage to engage an audience. His & Hers was no exception and only added to the queue of movies I wish I could have been involved in making.

I wasn’t expecting the entire movie to change heroines about every 2 minutes, but the cross section of Irish women from each stage of life was an incredibly insightful technique to explore the intricacies of a culture, not limiting views to any one specific perspective. The range of anecdotes from the women was also carefully selected to illustrate all kinds of relationships between men and women. Young women inspired feelings of fluttery excitement and insecurities with their potential boyfriends. Small children reminded us of the friendship and affection so special and unique to relationships with our fathers. The film even had moments of heartbreaking tenderness when we were let into the home and the heart of an elderly woman who had lost her husband of many years and would still find herself rolling over to an empty half of the bed at nights.

Visually, the cinematography was brilliant. Every scene was framed with calculated and striking structure. I also appreciated that each frame included an actual frame- whether it was from a windowpane, a door jam, cabinet or bookshelves, picture or mirror frames. The shots captured life from the view of these women: what their bedrooms looked like, where their laundry hung in the backyard, the kitchens that served as backdrops for the meals they shared with the most important people in their lives. There was no narration, and no inserted text; the film literally let the subjects guide the story (or stories, rather). My one disadvantage watching the film was from a slight cultural barrier, a speed bump maybe, that made certain humor difficult to understand. Nearly the entire audience laughed when one woman was explaining how she helps her husband on their farm whenever he needs her. She stands in the “gaps” when he herds cattle, and the whole theater (save for the two rows of Americans in the back) erupted into laughter when she mused that “no matter what gap you stand in, its never the right gap.” Its possible I’m just slow, or don’t have enough (or any) experience being married, but I got the feeling that I was missing something.

Lost humor aside, I think my favorite part of the movie was the fact that I didn’t grow up in Ireland—I had no idea where the towns were that these women grew up in, their homes did not spark familiarity with the homes I grew up in— and yet I still felt like I could identify with, or at least empathize with, nearly every character. I think this speaks to the universality of the film and the themes they were trying to explore. I noticed the majority of the theater was populated by females, in fact only one boy from our trip saw the movie, and I would be interested to hear how men related to the stories or if they were engaged at all. I have a suspicion though, that just by the nature of the film finding these women relatable would not be difficult. It might be a lack of interest in the subject matter that keeps men at a wary distance. However, I noticed conversation about His & Hers arising several times amongst the group the following days in downtime on drowsying bus rides and in afternoon stints at local beer gardens. And to me, if the movie is still making us talk about it afterward, hasn’t it done its job? (645 words)

I feel a post about windows brewing. I saw many a good window today.

June 30

I haven’t spent a ton of time watching Irish films. Actually, I haven’t spent a ton of time watching movies in general, much less Irish ones. But I was particularly impressed with one we watched in class this week. Instead of jotting down notes about lighting, costumes, or scene cuts, I found myself scribbling quotes, lines of poetry, and themes that paralleled ideas I’ve come across on the trip so far. If for no other reason, I thought these little inspirations were a pretty good indication of a well-made movie. I can gauge how much a like something by how motivated I am to remember it later.

The Wind That Shakes the Barley is historical fiction, chronicling the struggle between the Irish Republican Army and the insurgency of Black and Tans, British soldiers, in Ireland in the early 1920s. It shows how the confusing and often complicated conflict affected lives on a local level. Moments were incredibly heartbreaking.

A huge theme was the evolution of two main characters, brothers, who start out fighting for the radical IRA trying to win Irish independence from Britain and end up on different sides of the argument. Betrayed and near desperation, one brother reminds the other that he didn’t even want to get involved in the conflict in the first place, but now that he has, he can’t get out even if he wanted to.

It seemed to me that many of the young men found themselves fighting for things they believed in (to varying degrees) but nonetheless found themselves making choices they never wanted to make. I started asking myself how these young men ended up there. Why they kept acting like they didn’t have a choice when, clearly, they did.

The end of the movie reads a letter the main character, Damien, pens to his spouse and quotes, “Strange creatures we are, even to ourselves.” Maybe why we make choices isn’t always clear to us, or even a conscious decision at all. In Clockwork Orange, I will always remember the priest being the only one to express concern over the inhumanity of taking away human will. In fact, according to that character, free will, or choice, is the only thing that keeps our humanity afloat.

It’s a common literary theme, I’m aware. A friend of mine reminded me that even in To Kill A Mockingbird, Scout Finch admits she didn’t like reading until it was taken away from her. But it’s a powerful theme, and one that I keep running into. In one of the closing scenes of The Wind That Shakes the Barley, Damien reflects on his involvement with the IRA and his choices regarding his family and fellow Irishmen. “Its easy to know what you’re against,” he writes. “Quite an honor to know what you’re for.” And I think he has a point. Having a choice may be the most important aspect of our humanity, but maybe it takes losing it, or the threat of losing that freedom, to know exactly what we would do with it. (507 words)

June 29

If there is one thing I learned from Kinsale, it’s that the life I should be striving for, and probably should have been living this whole time, is that of an Irish dog. I would even forego the ability to see in color for the days of long walks next to fuzzy grass, splashing on rocky beaches, and lying on the warm floors of hillside cottages. Okay, maybe they don’t all live in hillside cottages. But just about every tenth person I encounter walking on the street is accompanied by a furry friend, and I can’t help but envy how loved these animals seem to be.

There are big, shaggy dogs. Small, fluffy dogs. Short dogs with black, wavy hair and half-folded ears. Skinny dogs with slender noses and muted splotches. There are old dogs, and young dogs. Dogs on leashes, dogs in laps on buses, dogs napping next to restaurants. Even more amazing than the abundance and beautiful array of these animals, is their collective behavior. Not once have I been, or seen someone, accosted by one of these dogs. A few show interest with a couple quick, exploratory sniffs, but not a single one has tried to smuggle their way onto my bus seat, or into my purse, or tried to eat my face off when I pet them (unlike my psychopathic puppy).

They must feed these dogs something special over here.

In all seriousness, they have it made. Every dog I’ve seen is attentive, curious, tongue-slopping-out-content. And why shouldn’t they be?

For them, the present moment is never anything more, never anything less than simply that: right now. Every meal is completely and totally welcome, satisfying that immediate sensation of emptiness. Dogs never eat because they are bored, or lonely, or stressed, or procrastinating, they eat because that’s exactly what their body tells them they need at the moment. Every walk is an adventure, every sniff a hunt for buried treasure. I can only imagine that the wind smells sweeter, the sun feels toasty, the ocean tastes saltier when you aren’t anticipating it, you aren’t lamenting yesterday’s greatness. And this is exactly how I imagine an Irish dog to approach life.

Based on the very limited observations I’ve made so far, their days consist of waking up to the smell of coffee drip drip dropping in the kitchen, followed by a sufficient romp around fluorescent green gardens. There is probably some eating, some running, maybe some more romping, until their owners decide to take them to the sandy or rocky beaches (either one will work) of the Irish countryside. The next few hours include racing up and down the shoreline, sopping wet, maniacally happy, chasing items of interest in and out of the water. Of course there are several, if not a bunch, of other dogs and puppies to play with who are all equally excited and encourage them to run their hardest, jump their highest, bark their loudest. And according to a recent theater show I attended at the Cork Midsummer Festival, nearly 44 percent of dogs sleep in a bed with their owner at the end of the day.

These dogs have the right idea. The more I can learn from them, the better. Less conscientious, more content. Less neurotic 20-something trying to figure out life, more trusting, appreciative, tongue-slopping-out-panting, happy Irish dog. (558 words)