Dublin: Dubious Lube?

The journey begins as I am awoken by a dream of lights in the hallway. Voices are carroling: black and yellow wiring (tv yellow with close shadows).I smell childhood muffins. 5am and I am awake. I cook a tesco fish filet in the convetion oven as I shower, careful not to turn on the kitchen lights as Nathan has passed out on the floor with his computer still playing something like Parks & Rec. I get to the bus stop by Summertown at 5:50 to realize it is 5:50 on a sunday, way too early for any sort of bus. I run into town feeling like a jangling convict, bus change in my jacket pocket and overfull backpack splitting open with each jostle. I consider slowing down as I pass my fellow early morning walkers, consider what they might think of the young man with the 30 pound back pack sprinting down an empty street, sounding like Penny Pay Day. But I don't stop. As the bus door harsh-electric closes I run up banging on the glass and worrying "Gatwick?!" 6:15. The bus driver sighs. I think to myself, the airport then. Steps. A pale tentative sun rises slowly above the over-grey, arren tree-reach as the breathy tones of the driver whisk me away from the last Oxford bus station.

The man on the plane next to me is overweight. I can feel the seats bend as he sits and breathes heavily into his thick green scarf. So much for the fantasy cute Irish girl and the mile high club.

I get into the center of Dublin, around noon. Commercial-urban shit hole. It is surprisingly empty, except for the group of Parisians I step off the bus with. I got to talk with a few of them (in French!), I guess two of them are using this trip as a honey moon and they are annoyingly lovey dovey. I can attest to this as I got a few stray kicks as the unattractive 50 year old couple made out on the bus seat across from me.

I quickly find the hostel, not far from the city center, but amongst abandoned buildings, barbed wire fences, and shottily done graffiti. From there, it is straight to find a notebook. I go into a store, and upon finding all the notebooks quite over-priced and the lady in black behind the counter snearing at me as if I  am just the dirtiest most ignorant man she's ever set eyes on, I steal a notebook and write quickly in it, "First things first, I stole this notebook."

From there the day becomes more fragmented as sleep deprivation sets in as well as a profound sense of isolation. I find myself holding a constant dialogue in my head, which is actually a quite pleasant soundtrack to my aimless wandering about the crumbling city. I like it inside my head; it is warm and cavernous, oddly shaped, beautifully colored, and an absolute chaos: I like myself. I do not worry about spending so much time alone, in fact, I wonder why I haven't been able to slip out of the clutches of the public realm for so long. Back to my fundamental state: the poetic introvert who easily falls in love.

My first real stop is the Jameson distillery. I take the tour and get lucky enough to participate in a free whisky tasting. I win. Most of the people on the tour are confused by the lone American boy with the whisky knowledge. I get myself a hat. I will post a picture. I leave a little tipsy, couple shots of whisky on a stomach empty since 5. Good way to experience the city.

Distillation is controlled evaporation. It seems to me like that is what is happening to this place. A slow process, repeated over and over of taking something out of it and leaving only water. Or maybe it is leaving water behind, the water of life, and forming a potent, palpable strong substance with character. This place certainly has that. I must reiterate, this city is crumbling.

Some kids are hanging around outside a convenience store. One hands me a pile of change and asks if I will buy what sounds like some John Lawyer Goyle's. Figuring it's cigarettes I say sure and go in and buy some John Player Gold's. I come out whistling, handing the group of teenager's an afternoon's entertainment, rambunctiousness, formative experience...poison. This city....

I go to evensong at St. Patrick's Cathedral. It is gorgeous in there and I partly get that Dionysian feeling which makes me understand how people can be so swept up and out of themselves by organized religion, especially by Christianity. I have heard very few things as beautiful as those hymns. And the mic'd voice of the pastor is counsel in my ear. I try to believe in Jesus, I try to be a yea-sayer. I figure, there is so much beauty in every thing, I should try to make the effort to believe in everything. Why wouldn't I? Out of some desire 'to be right' or otherwise some kind of twisted loyalty in which beliefs must be mutually exclusive. That's the societally conditioned logic talking. Heidegger would be so proud.

I'm meeting up with Michael from Couchsurfing for a whisky in a little bit. After that I'll try to get to bed so I can catch up on sleep and get the 6:45 bus to Galway.

Tomorrow I begin the real journey. Today I dipped my toes in the water. I have found it is quite pleasant, quite welcoming, but across the ocean I can see a storm brewing. I'm rigging my sails as best I can, and caulking the ship so as not to leave too many weaknesses.  All that weathers the storm, drinks its rain. All that loves the storm, delights in life.

I have decided to keep a blog. It may be pompous at times, it may be silly. It may fall by the wayside as I lose access to internet, and it may never be interesting. I am undecided as to whether I will post my creative writing on here. Perhaps only in note form. We shall see. Well if anyone is reading this, I love you, and not just because you are reading this.

"As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end. Amen."