A Revival, Y'all

"Dreams unwind, love's a state of mind..."

--"Rhiannon" by Fleetwood Mac

Went to bed in Dublin, woke up on the other side of the sea some months later.

And in the hazy in-between days, I managed to find my way home, fix a broken dog, find my balance and find some work while I work on manifesting the Next Big Thing.  A modern-day gypsy by default more than by design, and as evidenced in part by my scarf collection.

So, I just decided that I'd dust off this Webby corner of the world and write a bit more.  

More soon.

j:.

In Transit

A brief word before I go offline for the weekend prior to my departure: Though my feelings are mixed as I prepare to leave Ireland, I'm thankful to all and happy for your passing interest in my ongoing adventures.

You'll hear from me once more when I arrive in Dublin on Monday.

Stay tuned, y'all.

j:.

A Sort of Homecoming

So, I presently live maybe one mile from the ruins of Carrigogunnell Castle in County Limerick. Local historians agree that the castle was most likely built around 1449 and was nearly forever occupied by the O'Brien family (likely, my friend Chris is a descendant) on the site of a former volcano that had gone dormant ages before that.

By the way, Flatmate Kevin from West Cork likes to put on his best Irish pirate voice and say, whenever he sees castle ruins or versions of same, “Ah, dere's a shtink of oppression off it, lads.”

This castle is now covered in the Irish version of kudzu, which would be your garden-variety (known here as “bog-standard”) ivy. And overgrown trees and scrub brush. But it's still an impressive sight.

And it is also a favorite destination of mine, where I take the dog on hikes after work or on the weekends. Bog-standard castle in ruins, according to most. Well, according to me.

Until now, that is...see Bono's backdrop, below.

[And thanks to Jay Stanley for pointing this out.]

What's interesting about this is that, for me, U2—not The Pogues or "The Quiet Man" or Thin Lizzy or Van Morrison or even “Darby O'Gill and The Little People”--put the first images of Ireland in my head, courtesy of MTV Music Television. I had to watch MTV covertly in the homes of neighbors and friends, because my mother wouldn't allow MTV in our house.


So, a flag-waving Bono singing about "Sunday Bloody Sunday" at Red Rocks first taught me about The Troubles that the Irish faced. And one of my first cassette tapes I bought at Hot Dog Records in Jonesboro, Arkansas, was “The Unforgettable Fire.”






So, I've long been a fan. And also, I always thought that the drummer was, like, way hot (far right, in photo.)

The other side of this castle is where Lola and I visit, where the kids have burned bonfires for literally hundreds of years, celebrating celebration and apparently engaging in various levels of grab-ass.

Weird how these things reveal themselves, you know?

Hope to see you, too, soon.

j:.

Sideshow Anecdotes

"Life inside the music box ain't easy/The mallets hit the gears are always turning/And everyone inside the mechanism/Is yearning/To get out..."

--“Musicbox,” Regina Spektor

Some really great and entertaining things have happened in along the roadside here in Ireland.

You can go back to one of my earliest blog entries and click on the photos link to see my St. Patrick's Day celebrations in Miltown Malbay, out in County Clare. Good fun, even if the parade theme intended participants to “take the piss out of” the U.S., as they say.

The Irish are real and honest and what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of folk, but I've also found that nothing is taboo and everything is fair game when it comes to “slagging” (also known as “taking the piss,” noted above) and humiliating people for sport. And they are truly masters of sarcasm.

Overheard when someone asked an Irishman and former Limerick resident what he misses about Ireland since his move to England, your man replied, “I miss the insincerity.”

...

I've heard a lot of great live music while here, and I've traveled a lot on the weekends and on bank holidays, dragging Lola with me wherever and whenever I can. So far we've gone with friends to Cork, West Cork, Sligo, Dublin and out to the edge of the earth at Spanish Point for some beach time...

...which is exactly what she and I did on Labor Day weekend, when I participated in my first-ever Ramadan Treasure Hunt. Anyway, the family of one of my housemates is an endlessly entertaining and creative bunch, and they decided to create the Ramadan Treasure Hunt, which involves said family of revelers who devise clues and divide everyone into teams that drive around the countryside near the Cliffs of Death, and the team making it back with all the answers in the least amount of time wins. Someone along the way realized they were holding this event at the onset of Ramadan, hence the name. And winning earns you bragging rights and the first chance to draw a prize out of the bag that everyone else gets to draw from also.

After the hunt, one of the O'Sullivan family members decided it would be funny to craft an Evil Eye from a marble and molding clay and put it in Lola's nose-nook.

Which he did.

And it was.

For your enjoyment, above.

...

Never the photojournalist, I forget my camera mostly always, so it's a miracle there's any evidence of my ever living here. But I rather like that the images are just filed in my brain and mine to keep. Or maybe that's a convenient excuse for forgetfulness. Dunno.

Thanks to the Aaron Dunn family for stopping by on their Irish holiday, and for picking up the check for breakfast. Much appreciated.

Happy Autumn, y'all.

j:.

That’s Mister Python, To You.

"Life's a piece of sh!t, when you look at it.

Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true.

You'll see it's all a show, keep 'em laughing as you go.

Just remember that the last laugh is on you.

And...always look on the bright side of life."

--"Always Look on the Bright Side of Life" from Monty Python's "The Life of Brian"

This is all very well and good and lovingly dedicated to my Red Octopus kinfolk:

At the Tom Waits concert in Dublin recently, I was THIS CLOSE to Terry "I'm-the-Jailer-in-'The Life of-Brian'-and-also-the-only-American-member-of-Monty-Python" Gilliam. Only two rows behind, four seats over. (I know! I know! Tom Waits is growling out his songs, and all I can do is hear, "Always look on the bright side of life...") Not to mention that he was the last director to work with Heath Ledger before his untimely Olsen-Twin-induced death. The thought did cross my mind that perhaps if Terry Gilliam kissed Heath Ledger at some point during the movie shoot and if I now kissed Terry, it would kinda be like kissing Heath Ledger by default. Brilliant! More beer.

So, when my whiskey-soaked leprechaun date decided to introduce me, something funny happened. Which is what you want out of a situation like that, if you're meeting a member of the BEST comedy troupe of, like, ever.

LEPRECHAUN: Terry, young Jennifer here is from Amer-i-kay, also. Hails from Arkansas...

ME: (interrupting, as you do, and trying not to stare at his mullet) Hello! You're one of the funniest men of, like, ever. Did you know that?

TERRY: (maybe a little scared?) Hi? And thanks? My granddad was from Arkansas...

ME: (now mesmoried by the mullet--that hair never worked for Mick Fleetwood, either) Well, how in the hell did that happen?

TERRY: (proffering a pen for the autographing of one dollar bill) I don't know, actually. Should I sign, "To Jennifer...?"

ME: Yes, please. It's my last dollar bill. You know, our dollar isn't worth the paper it's printed on these days.

TERRY: Neither's my autograph.

(rim shot)

Thanks, don't forget to try the veal and please tip your servers.

j:.

Revised Routine and Other Tidbits

Things now go like this:

5:45A Up for a run, weather and necessary bravery permitting, then Lola & I take a walk

6:30A Put the kettle on, enjoy some less offensive instant coffee, watch EuroNews, eat a bowl of porridge or maybe Oatiflakes

6:45A Shower & such

7:45A Out the door—mandatory, as I've timed it—for a 20-minute brisk walk to the bus stop (I've only missed it once, and I won't make that mistake again)

...say hello to the calves and their mamas in the field...

...say hello to the Jack Russell terrier, yellow Lab and mutt sidekick who greet me next to the peach-colored house with the best view of Carrigogunnell Castle...

8:05A Arrive at the bus stop, which is not so much a bus stop but more a place along a sidewalk in front of the equestrian centre, next to the only traffic lights in the village of Clarina

…say “good morning” to the three-toothed lady whose remaining teeth protrude and actually move against her bottom lip when she speaks...

8:10A Board Bus #314 to Limerick city centre, at a cost of €3.10 one way or €5.60 for a return, or €50 for a monthly bus pass

...experience a 25-minute ride with fellow passengers of varying degrees of special needs and/or physical or mental challenges, the latter of which is evidenced often in fantasy role-playing among some riders at the back of the bus, in pretending drive the bus around the city of Limerick, making “errrrrrr” braking noises and “vrrrrrrrrmmmm” acceleration noises. [See accompanying cellphone camera photo of a fellow rider who helps "drive" the bus.] Please note that I am not 1) exaggerating, 2) kidding or 3) intending disrespect in any way. I merely reflect fact. And things only get more interesting when a full moon is in effect...also fact. [Author's note: There's poetry in this anecdote that won't be lost on my friend Meg, who is in fact a real live poet.]

8:35A Arrive at the bus/train station in city centre, with a 15- to 20-minute walk to work ahead of me.

5ish P Grocery shop/errand-run and whatnot

5:40P Catch the Sunshine Bus back to the countryside

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

...

Is the hassle worth all of this hassle?

The country hole has been in a state of marginal yet inconvenient disrepair (plumbing & septic tank issues, electrical issues, etc.) since we all moved in—see “Money Pit” starring Tom Hanks & the incomparable Shelley Long.

One of the roommates hasn't quite taken a shine to Lola, or me for that matter, but I'm not too impressed by this person's behavior, either.

Living costs in the church home are lower, yet my days are longer due to the commute and, therefore, I'm physically at home less than before.

So is it worth the hassle? Time will tell. It is awfully lovely to sleep in the quiet, and I do have a nice walk-in closet. And living next to a graveyard isn't as creepy as you might think.

...

When I was little, and my family from Tennessee would come for Christmas, the whole affair would last for days and I would not miss a moment of it. One memory given back to me by Mom--and others old enough at that time to remember it--places me in the doorway of our Candlewood house, just as the Tennesseans pulled out of our driveway. I'm there watching with my electric Snoopy toothbrush hanging out of my mouth. I had not slept enough in a week for a four-year-old kid and had already eaten an entire Christmas wreath made of M&Ms. Blood had run away from my face and I'd become a holiday zombie midget. Point being, I never wanted to miss out on anything. Maybe that's one of the reasons I came here—to see what I'd been missing. But a new kind of longing has been knocking at my door. I miss my family and friends. I miss all that is familiar, even if all that is familiar lives in a land-locked furnace this time of year.

Miss y'all.

Stay cool over there.

:.j

Country Comfort

"Goodbye, city life! Green acres, we are there!"

--Eddie Albert & Eva Gabor, Green Acres theme

As I typed this yesterday, I was sitting on my bed with Lola, in a fully renovated, 19th-century church-house-cum-country estate.

My neighbors are pretty quiet. And by “neighbors” I mean the cows across the field and the dearly departed in the graveyard next door.

"And it's good old country comfort in my bones..."

--Elton John

Welcome to the Irish countryside, where I presently and thankfully reside.

The former residents of this property, besides perhaps God and members of the Church of Ireland, are locked in divorce court (still a relatively new concept here) and put the property up for rent. In fact, the owner—a man called Doc—has made and lost millions maybe three times over and was recently kidnapped and held for ransom by members of the IRA. No, not the IRS, but the IRA. Like, he was kidnapped from this very property. Hence the CCTV cameras at every corner. But I digress.

So, two of my new roommates saw the rental listing as an opportunity to shed city digs, pull up stakes and head to the countryside. I'd grown tired of the filthy streets and stupid inhabitants that make up most of Limerick city centre. My recent flat was a lovely place and would've been a fine place to live—were it not for a constant barrage of Nordic death metal banging through the plaster walls from my neighbor's gaff (flat, apartment, condo, whatever.) That, and the dirty den of low-lifes located directly across the street on the Dublin Road. I say this after having this fact confirmed by three separate cabdrivers, who not only told me that this collection of people numbered over 40 in total but that all were up to no good.

Check out the new digs, y'all, once I get this damn Mac link fixed. All are welcome.

j:.