These are the days

Ah. So much. Where to begin? Well, the beginning, dumbass (an Irishman said that in a pub as he asked me for my life's story, quite demanding they are) You'll have to forgive this post's lugubriousness and liquidity for it has been lubricated by the pouring of guinness down my gullet, along with heineken, irish coffee's, etc.

So there I was in Doolin. Amazing breakfast. Setting out from a gorgeous home, with Marian waving goodbye. 
I set off on the road to the cliffs of moher which I had oft heard of, but of which i have only ever seen photos. That has changed, as you may guess.

Artsy. My cliff.

I've found the first miles of every day are the hardest, getting my legs back into the pull, my mind into the trance of the open road. For a while, my whole body rebels and brings back thoughts of bed, or food, or anything else to confuse my will, to distract my spirit, to occupy my mind. I went down a few wrong paths, up hills to lonely farm houses (the signage in Ireland is as bad as they say, if they say it is bad, that is.) When I finally found my road, it was a hard one. Up to the cliffs of Moher was a steep climb, and I ended up shamedly walking my bike up most of the winding mountain route (though when I realized pride was a thing of the past, I let this go). At the cliffs of Moher, at first I walked along up to them without thought, without awe, grateful for a rest from the constant pressure on my ass cheeks. I walked up to the edge, to my first view of the magnificence, as a child approaches a Dali painting, merely as image, one presented and to be taken flat. But upon walking along the edge I soon stepped out of my practical state of mind, and into no particular one.

The cliffs of Moher seem to me, in my human way, a face. each line of rock, a thousand years of character.
I get the feeling of time as it is, in this place. no past, present, future, just waves, waves, waves and rock. People climb along them like water over a sheet of glass. This is the closest thing to the ocean I have ever seen. The difference is immeasurably small, one tweak and these monoliths would be the infinite sea. I pause to meditate.

What matter destinations, thoughts of purpose, romance, worries, or feeling atop these great Golems of the Earth. Emet. the only truth: silent unknowing. truly touching the water, the cliffs are caves, coves, cracks, dirt, shiff grass, mud, gulls, wind, waves, white foam, crashs, the living rock. It breathes beneath me. I sigh, i am only a breath away from this place, from unified oblivion. Maria from Spain comes and sits next to me. We sit together and watch the sacred clffs, the tiny separating point of the earth, forever.

I have a thought, that, how wonderful would it be to lose yourself in the passion of making love here, then jetison your seed out into the ocean. I wonder if anyone has ever done it. Perhaps the vikings. I look over at Maria, I am too shy to ask, here in broad daylight, among the tourists. Too aware perhaps.

The moment there, sitting across from my cliff, eyes closed, legs crossed, the wind breathing over my face and body, the sound and smell of dirt and sea, was quite close to perfect. I found a measure of peace.

And then I was off, rejuvinated in a way I have not felt in months. The road was hard, it seems I always face the sky. But before long, with small goals, I made it to a small town along the road, that fateful N67 I think. I picked up some peanut butter and nutella and bread for the road, for lunch and snacks. Calories and carbs. I pause often, no longer to take pictures but to breath and rest my head before it becomes too concerned with its small goals, its practicality.

It finally appeared.

I stop for lunch when I find an abandoned old farmhouse on the side of the side of a sideroad. The gate is broken and behind lies an unkempt field with a piece of a windmill and telephone wires overhanging. I go in, and break out the feast.

Sitting in broken down stone farm house, scooping peanut butter nd nutella alternately out of jars with wheat bread and bike greased hands, I realize pride is a sily thing again. Either we're all of it, or we're none of it, you see? And the only idea of self is contingent on an idea of the past.

I think about poetry often. What a flawed form. The boundaries must dissolve I think. Expression. Creation. Completion. And all their many forms must cease to see space between them.

Peom- acute observation or a cute observation? I think up an angry poem about all the things poems have always been and should not be. I do not write it down. Some things do not need to be held.

For hours now I sing "om mani padme hum" to myself. The jewel in the heart of the lotus. It means so very many things.

The hostel in Kilkee is closed. At 530  I am faced with the choice of riding another 10 miles to Kilrush or taking a B&B here. I choose the Bay View Inn, overlooking the water. Mary at the counter gives me a special deal, seeing my mud spattered face and ripped flannel. She lets me park my bike inside. What a kind woman.

I sit in my room, in a little jut out octagon which overlooks the sea with a small coffee table and an arm chair. I brew a pot of tea and begin to read Genesis out of the Bible provided me. Did you know Noah's dove, after bringing back the olive branch, left and never came back?

I leave the room to explore, and am drawn inevitably to the sea, which lies at the foot of a series of stadium like stone steps, very close to those of Harvard stadium.
I walk along, avoiding the water as I did when I was a child, and looking out into the inscrutable greyness of the rest of the world. My whole body longs to be diffused in the water, lose its cohesion, swirl among the swirls. As it grows darker, the reflected lights of Kilkee look like stilts of fire holding the city above the water.

Be here now.

A large older woman walks along the beach below me, as I silently meditate at the top of the stone steps. She looks very peaceful and I deliberate before walking over to say hello. Asking, "Do you mind if I sit with you, and share in your peace?" I startle her, she walks a bit away, raising a stick she was carrying. "You frightened me." I apologize profusely and we begin talking, as the dog (Leon) rubs himself against my legs.

Janie Harte and I end up talking for hours, walking along the beach and through Kilkee. I meet many members of the town, like my Grammy Barbara she knows everyone. She tells me of the rose petals which she gives to people, a sign of love which St. Theresa used to do. I tell her of my search for peace. She takes me back to her house for tea and to meet her husband and son. Lovely people. We talk of the holy ghost, of fags (fear, anxiety, guilt, and shame) which do not come from above, but within. She tells me of the darkness she struggles with. We share prayers.

Janie harte puts rose petals in her letters
I spoke to her of the dove who left Noah
I often face darkness,
she said to me

I saw her sitting peacefully on the rocky
steps of the beach.
she almost hit me with her stick, I
so surprised her.

"Can I come and sit by you?" I said,
"you look at peace" at this
she calmed, her eyes
brightened with holy love,
we talked for 3 hours, she
brought me home
i met the town, she had grew up in, hates to leave.
She spoke ofst theresa,
the sisters she hasnt seen,
her unemployed son
her fisherma husband she met
in KIlkee at 16.

We kept coming back to that beach and peace. She spoke of God's light & courage.
I tried to channel the holy spirit for her
we each share our personal prayers.
Hers went:
lord, today, put in front of me
those you want
and keep from me those you do't
so I may know everyone
I meet has your holy love and word.

She  is with me,
and i am with her.
On the beach of kilkee.
And now neither of us, is so alone.

I go back to the bb to shower and rest. I spend a long time silently thinking of the ocean in a white bathrobe.

The next morning, there is frank sinatra playing in the breakfast room. All the others are couples, except me.
I think, "This day will be long." I wish I could paint.

Mary gave me a special deal on the room, but said there would be not hot breakfast. Forgetting this as a menu is placed in front of me, I order. I am quite ashamed when she comes out to remind me of our arrangement. How foolish shame.

I set out and have trouble finding my bearings again. I ask an old woman postering jesus pamphlets on doors for directions. She has god bless me.

It isn't long to the ferry at Killimer, about 16 km and I make it in a little over an hour. I wait for the ferry on a park bench with some triangular celtic symbol below it. It feels wrong to take a picture.

The ferry is short and weird. I am the only one not in a car, and I got into a small holding room which looks like the radio room from the freighter in Lost. The road from the ferry at Tarbert is flat, thank god, and directly by the sea.

Something feels right about this, the stone walls, the ocean so close. But i have trouble getting into rhythm. I struggle the whole day, often stopping, often walking the bike up hills. I grin as cars pass me, PRIDE, i shout.

But when the sings point towards listowell, the distance begins to shrink. I make it in a little over an hour and pause in the brilliant sunlight in the town square. Families surround me, a butcher shop behind. I get an overpriced panini at a small cafe and eat it, lying on a stone outcrop beside a carved book. These are the days, I think.

I get back on the road, but my legs are tired as if at the end of a day. About 20 miles to go. and these are long. Long story short, existential crisis, existential crisis, sweat, tears, cows, poems, a rhythmic curse chant which contains various racial slurs which i will not write here, a few raps I have memorized, the entirety of The Love song of j alfred (which i do  not have memorized....) and then theres 6 km to go. From here, I begin thinking of Nietzsche. Of the way our earthly struggles and concerned are not separated from a spiritual realm, but they are all one and the same. But how can we transcend them? It is only through them. Man is a bridge. Man is something to overcome. As I realize this, the road levels and then slopes down. For 6 km I speed through Ireland shouting at every car I pass "Man is something to be overcome!" and whooping and cheering and crying. The sun shines down on me, my sun. The grass sings with the wind of my wheels. My eyes blur with the water of the world, the water of life, ishka baha.

I arrive in Tralee, my destination at 430, almost 2 hours ahead of my expected time. I quickly find the castle hostel, pay a cheap fee (compared to B&B's) and settle in. There I meet Joe and Kaitlyn who want to Karaoke later. I'm not sure if it's in the spirit of the trip. We'll see. I go to get a beer.

This beer turns into three as I meet a pair of salted Irishmen watching football in the pub. They buy me drinks, we talk of Boston and Ireland, of philosophy, and football. Folks from the hostel join us, it turns into a very happy party.

I get my first irish coffee. Fucking delicious. A few more pints and we are really talking philosophy now. The two irishmen, Pat and Tom, can't stop smiling or trying to engage the girls in conversation. Tom keeps whispering drunkenly in my ear, the best answer is to say i don't know.

Somehow arm wrestling comes up, and I am challenged by Pat. We begin lefty, which worries me, but I quickly beat him there. We switch hands, and I soundly beat him righty. A twenty something irishman from across the bar see's, and with two full sleeves of tatoo's, challenges me. I reluctantly accept at the bidding of my new American, Irish, and New Zealand friends. After a few minutes, we call that one a draw. Now the other old Irishman, tom wants a go. I give in quickly and get to the bathroom. Coming out, I see everyone has moved to the next room for Karaoke. So it goes.

Merryl, the Parisien, asks me to sing Bohemian Rhapsody with her. We rock it. The young tatoo'd guy and his friend join us, and post sticky notes to their heads which read, I'm a cunt. All is merriment and drunken release.

Kaitlynn has a beautiful voice, Joe is a soft, chocolate friend. The older irish gents come in to watch, leering over the girls. They buy me another drink and I cut myself off. I have to cycle in the morning. I stay a while but it seems the party is only getting drunker, as a group of twenty something girls pours in with fruity drinks in hand. I don't have time for this, I say, and leave.

Back at the hostel I shower and prepare for tomorrow. Dingle it is, over the mountains. It is a short journey, but mostly uphill.

I return to the feeling of peace of the cliffs of moher, of the waves of Kilkee. This is all I want in life. This and a good drink. But more so, just this. This moment is perfect, and I cannot help but smile. (that is the prayer I shared with Janie, and now I share it with you). The rest of my hostel mates are filing in drunkenly now.