blog (January, 2002)
this is the end, beautiful friend
I salvaged my time in Kilarney with an unreal bikeride through the National Park: lakes with dark yellow sandy beaches and craggy rocks. Forests where the only sound was water dropping from leaves and elf laughter (I was the Lord of the Ring of Kerry.) Mountains of orange, mountains of green -- so dark and thick green you know there are two kinds of lush in Ireland. -- the stuff big picture books on coffee tables are made of -- the ones you wonder how they can make the world look so magical and unworldly and decide it must be airbrushed or edited or something - no? No.
Tonight I'm in Dublin with "old"-friend Dave I worked with this past summer at camp. I fly home to the little island off the west coast of Ireland tomorrow: Christmas-Eve morning. Arrive in Rochester in the evening.
I began this trip with Thoreau -- sensible to end it on the same note.
I left the woods for as good a reason as I went there. Perhaps it seemed to me that I had several more lives to live, and could not spare any more time for that one. It is remarkable how easily and insensibly we fall into a particular route, and make a beaten track for ourselves.
--H.D. Thoreau, Walden
It has all been incredible... but time to move on. First, though, some quality holiday chill with the fam and friends back at home, and lots on the to do list...
the morning wind forever blows
This morning the wind and postman brought me a letter from across the big pond -- enclosed was a small gift from jen and her hope that I might be "watching the waters off that Grand Old Isle."
I took her advice and headed out to the bay, and found a seat on the rocks at the end of the pier. The wind blasted my face while I sat, drawing tears from my eyes, and I was afraid that the dog-walkers would misread my exhiliration for sorrow.
Swans, pidgeons, ducks, and the heron that flies around the city and teaches me lessons entertained me as the wind slapped the waves up against the rocks. The pidgeons are anxious and flutter here and there, surprised by something I can't see. The seagulls love the wind, and I am sure they are at play and enjoying it thoroughly. The ducks slice straight through the wind rather than catching the gusts. The swans rarely fly, but when they do, their necks are stretched out and their wings enormous -- they look like white warplanes in my tear-blurred eyes. The heron squaks once to get my attention. I wouldn't have noticed him had he not. He strikes off into the distance, and I almost wonder if I should follow him -- if it's another message.
I am bulletproof this evening, just off work with a caffeine drive. Now the i-net cafe is closing and I am off into the night.