Another Nighttime Walk

The walk home this evening leaves me still without a camera and the sights I am the gracious guest of are more than worthy of photographs. Desafortunadamente, ningunas fotos existen menos las imágenes en mi mente, y mis palabras no los harán justicia.

Spanish moment. Deal with it, world. I miss speaking in Spanish for no reason, so I’m doing it more.

The red sky of evening seems ablaze with the warmth of the sun’s heat and the giant church steeple in the distance reflects the fiery glare. Only a pocket of light, a moment in the space in front of me, is on fire. The rest of the sky is a dark and tumultuous set of grey and billowing clouds, their heavy silhouettes tangible, reachable…

I’ve decided to walk home tonight to the smooth sounds of Rodrigo y Gabriella, enjoying the way the strums and picks and slips of the guitars drown out the sounds of cars and waves and everything else around me. It is the first time I have walked here with headphones. Usually I enjoy listening to the passersby, smiling casually in the general direction of their humanity and spreading a bit of personal interaction in a world where it is more common to duck heads then to stare eye to eye. But today it was the solitude I wanted, the absence of white noise in favour of a distinct and clear musical thread…A taste of the night 

It’s a hard habit to break, smiling at strangers. I am not sure I want it to go completely away, but as I stare into the dusky evening sun’s last flames before dark, I decide it’s something worth trying. A woman speed walks past me, her neon t-shirt distracts my eyes from the sky and I intrinsically turn to smile at her. She ignores me completely, the cord from her headphones swaying back and forth as her arms pump for more speed. So that’s the way it’s done…

Not my photo, but that's my view every walk

The rest of the walk I smile at no one, surrounding myself in this moment. To my left, the wind off the waves of the ocean shore (because yes, I get to walk by the ocean every single morning and night J) push sand and salt spray into my hair and onto my shivering skin. I bury my hands deeper into my pockets and for a few steps my head bends to adjust to the breeze. The pavement is smooth and rolling beneath my feet as I speed up to beat the night. When I lift my head again the sun has completely gone and the sky, a million shadows of navy, black and grey, looks ominous and hints at rain. The air changes scent, no longer the same smell of a clear and calm night but now gusts of stronger, sharper winds and the foreshadows of a downpour.  Somehow, I beat the inevitable rain home. 

How many clear nights like this will my mind be allowed to wander? It reaches and stretches itself, to the ocean, past the miles my feet have since laid behind me. As I remove my jacket, take off my heavy book bag and set it, along with its implications, on the ground by my unmade bed, the rain starts. It trickles at first down my window and then it begins to pour and I am thankful for the home, the friends and the comfort I find in its drops. I put my hand out the window. Freezing. It’s nice.  

I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me

The soft light of midnight and the silence between the beats of the drums and twang of guitar have me surrounded. An old man, with pint in hand, is pretending to know how to break dance and his friends and I laugh at his spins that somehow manage to spill not a drop of the cherished liquid. Caressed by the smiles of strangers that seem to brim over their glowing orange glasses, the stuff dreams are made of, my skin feels warm even though I know the night air has picked up the chills of fall.

I've been to clubs, I've danced and drank with the best of them, and seen many a drunk and happy face. But the last night, it was different and it seemed so much better. Feeling the warmth of true friendship blossoming, my head light with beer and floating thoughts, and working my way through the city with conversation and chuckles, this is what nights out should be like and I'm finding it hard to decide if I should stay for one more drink or go home feeling so elevated.

Obviously I stay.

The nights excitement swells to an incredible breadth.
The air bursts with energy, 
the sounds collapse themselves in exhaustion against my eardrums
and the thick beats of the darkness's rhythms dare me to keep my hands from 
soaring through the electrified space between my own molecules and those that 
explode near me in the sloppy loose and contagious dance moves 
or even those that linger in the shadowed corners of night,
untouched by the nights progression,
ignorant, ignoring, blind to this feeling….

The night leaves its breathy, sweet kisses upon my skin, it's touch is gentle and encompassing. As dark becomes dawn, my eyes, closed and sleeping but still replaying the memories, are alive and brightened by the experience. Morning turns to day turns to evening and as I walk the streets that seem to have changed from the night before I can't stop feeling like I've climbed a bit higher. A certain melody plays in a passing car and I cling to it; it recalls a memory and I spend hours trying to recall just what the flash of sound meant.

Then I remember, however many months ago,  when I first heard the song I was receiving my acceptance letter to come to school here. I was opening emails nonchalantly, looking for anything to distract me from the blandness that had become my day-to-day.
It played quietly, in the background, as if it were really only the sighs of a speaker, hardly audible. But it played, nonetheless. And so that song inspires this little, fluffy post of pith, but hey, I'm enjoying it anyways!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JROJQc9Q1T0 Fiona Apple: Extraordinary Machine

"I certainly haven't been shopping for any new shoes
-And-
I certainly haven't been spreading myself around
I still only travel by foot and by foot, it's a slow climb,
But I'm good at being uncomfortable, so
I can't stop changing all the time

I notice that my opponent is always on the go
-And-
Won't go slow, so's not to focus, and I notice
He'll hitch a ride with any guide, as long as
They go fast from whence he came
- But he's no good at being uncomfortable, so
He can't stop staying exactly the same

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me, or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine

I seem to you to seek a new disaster every day
You deem me due to clean my view and be at peace and lay
I mean to prove I mean to move in my own way, and say,
I've been getting along for long before you came into the play

I am the baby of the family, it happens, so
- Everybody cares and wears the sheeps' clothes
While they chaperone
Curious, you looking down your nose at me, while you appease
- Courteous, to try and help - but let me set your
Mind at ease

If there was a better way to go then it would find me

I can’t help it, the road just rolls out behind me

Be kind to me, or treat me mean

I’ll make the most if it, I’m an extraordinary machine

-Do I so worry you, you need to hurry to my side?
-It's very kind
But it's to no avail; I don't want the bail
I promise you, everything will be just fine

If there was a better way to go then it would find me
I can't help it, the road just rolls out behind me
Be kind to me, or treat me mean
I'll make the most of it, I'm an extraordinary machine"

Have you jumped yet?

There’s a smell here, a certain scent that my waking nostrils seem to sniff out every morning. It is fresh. My window, left open again through the night, allows me to hear that same smell, or perhaps I’m smelling the sound, I can’t configure the difference. Is it the scent of thriving restaurant next door? The busy bodied wait staff and chefs working, clanging and banging away, their shouts and laughter smell like breakfast and sweet teas and warmth. No, no that scent isn’t fresh enough. Perhaps it is the smell of the rain, the gentle but constant drizzle that has been going since late in the night. It hasn’t rained every day though, so it cannot be that. Surely it cannot be my own, tired self, waking amidst the tangled sheets and crumpled pillows and holding onto my new favorite book as if I could absorb the words through slumber... That is a scent not worth describing, but definitely not “fresh”. I close my eyes again and breathe in, deeper still, the sounds of the wind, the rain, the restaurant, the movement of my housemates, the stir of the curtains, the stretch in the arches of my feet. . .

There is something fresh about a new home, something that lingers, even when it isn’t actually there. It hides in the dark corners of the nights mind and envelopes itself around candle flames and perfume bottles. It changes all that I had once known as smell and makes all the other senses gather with it, confusing my own understanding of them and blending them into one ultimate sense. It is some sort of knowing, more than a feeling, and it is here. Eyes closed I inhale yet again, finally deciding it is time to open them to the grey clear light of morning. 

Without much to do yet, school has only just begun and I am far ahead in my reading lists, I choose to read a novel I have read a hundred times before. Head propped up by bent elbows and cupped hands, I look to the words on the page to slowly awaken me into a dream world. It’s nice, waking up to a novel, the slow movements of my eyes and hands as the pages turn allowing me to stretch the kinks of the night out.

After a while I decide it is time to really get up and move. Ireland is still so new; there is so much to see. Again I take the morning to go down to the water, although at my house here it is only a block or so away. It is foggy, cloudy, misty and wet and I love the way it surrounds me. A heron perches itself on a ledge of boulders, and cleans its feathers amidst the foaming waves. Two older gentlemen in front of me share laughs behind black umbrellas. A woman’s high-heeled shoes click loudly passed me. I have noticed people tend to walk quickly around here. I feel myself moving in slow motion in comparison. I don’t mind. I look out to the diving board after rounding a few curves and see a man, large and in black trunks, waving. It is apparent he is not waving at me but I wave back nonetheless. A woman behind me laughs. “Ye can have him, if ye want!” I laugh with her.

Her name is Sarah, and we walk to him together. Apparently he swims every morning here, and some days, when it is particularly cold and grey, she drives to meet him, with a warm towel waiting. She asks where I’m from, why I’m here, have I jumped yet? I answer her, enjoying our conversation, learning about her and her husband’s life together. As the board grows nearer he lets out a “hoot!” and splashes into the sea. He comes up, laughing as she hands him the towel. We chat for a bit but I decided he’s probably cold and Sarah looks really rather dismal in the rain. After brief goodbye’s and “see you around”s we part ways, each of us, like the heron, tending to our own dampened feathers. I don’t jump today; a different feel in the air has me feeling like writing more than swimming. I stay though, looking at the diving board and thinking about my meeting with Sarah.

You can see the diving boards on the right

It’s the last question she had asked that has me thinking. Have I jumped? Well…I’ve jumped off the board, which is surely what she means. But I ask myself that question later, as I sit, typing up a blog about how little I’ve done… how somehow I’ve run out of money and am waiting for funds to get to really see Ireland. Perhaps I’m in no rush; I am here for a year or maybe more, after all. Perhaps I have lost motivation to explore? No, no that can’t be it. Well waiting for funds can’t be my only excuse. So perhaps this blog can wait for funds, but I’m done waiting. I want to explore. 

But you just touch the distance...

Everything on campus is under construction, it seems. False green and yellow walls erect themselves, dictating my path and I cannot seem to find the Arts Millennium Building. I swear I was just here yesterday....

The quadrangle. Just your typical building here in Galway!

I'm sweating. I am nervous. I have taken way too long off of school to be back.  

Will they expect me to use British English? 

Am I allowed to use MLA formatting? 

How does one spell honor? Honour? Center? Centre?

Where the hell is this classroom? 

What time is it?

Am I already late?

Do I remember how to read?

What was I supposed to read again?

I hope I brought the right books....

Where the HELL is this classroom?! 

I climb some scaffolding-type temporary stairs and suddenly I am in the right building. 

Of course...climb THROUGH the construction to get to class.

It's this thing I am learning. Don't bother going around anything, just get THROUGH it.

It's tiny, this building. A small little space, with a few small rooms and some lecture halls of sorts. Room 203 is what I am searching for...

I look for signs, anything similar to what I am studying... 

Doors are labeled "French" or "Mandarin"... not quite what I am going for, though I am sure they are interesting classes nonetheless. I find a sign that says "200-206 --->" and assume that's my best bet. It is a corridor of doors. None of them are labeled, the hall is very tight. I feel like I am in a closet of closets. The walls are a dark charcoal grey and there are suddenly no windows. 
This cannot be the right place...In my panicked thinking I don't look up and walk directly into a human being. I almost scream she has startled me so in this dark little corner. 

"Oh. Um. Hi, sorry!" I gasp at her. This is why I shouldn't be allowed in public. This is why I should not have gone back to school. I'm flushed and almost drop my books.

"It is okay. Are you for MACC?" Her accent, thick and Polish, throws me for a second. I am just beginning to differentiate between Irish dialects and accents, and I always take a second to register new sounds. 

"I am. Are you?" I smile nervously at her, though she seems very kind and gentle. She smiles back. 

"Yes."

I look around and realize there are a few of us here, about six, waiting to be let into what I can only imagine will also be a small room. A few minutes later two Professors arrive and laugh at all of us.

 "Good to see you are on time. Just so you know, there is a key just for this occasion, hidden here." One of them lifts up a picture frame and a single key falls to the ground with a special sort of clack. "This classroom is yours, now. If ever you need to get in early, just remember the key is here for you. Please just make sure you put it back." 

With the door open we all file in, and suddenly everything seems okay. A small table, a small group of students, and a few Professors. I am calmed by this, this scholastic setting. We get a list of students and I realize there are only nine others in my program. I am excited by the thought of getting to know a group of students so well. Even more excited am I to meet all the Professors that will truly impact my education here. 

We sit and casual introductions begin. 
"This is your room, for the rest of the year this is your space." 

"Hi, I'm an English Major..."
"Hi, I studied Economics..."
"I focused on history and literature..."
"I studied Literature..."
....
The introductions are great. We get a chance to hear about each other, about ourselves, about the Professors and what this class will be like. Arduous, tenuous, strenuous and wondrous. I find myself getting more and more excited and far less nervous.  Throughout it all I tap my fingers together. The cheap jewelry I am wearing has turned my fingers green, but I don't care. I am finally back at school. If I thought I felt at home in the water I feel even more at home in school. I guess the perfect mix will be school near water. Perhaps one day they can make a school, for cultural studies, underwater, and then I will be truly happy. Until then, this will suffice. One of the professors, in particular, says exciting things. 

"I like to look at how literature is shaped, changed and dictated by colonialism. I like to look at language and the way its structure changes on impact with other, colonial languages. I am excited to look at visual language, as well." He looks at me. I had mentioned that I tried to look at the carving in New Zealand as a written language and was trying to look at the impact of colonial British English on written languages in other countries. I can tell we would work closely together. 
 I am reminded  of my all time favorite passage ever written by anybody ever in the entire world of writing ever (can you tell I like it?)

 

 "Oiseau de Cham, you write. Very nice. I, Solibo, I speak. You see the distance? In your book on the watermama, you want to capture the word in your writing, I see the rhythm you try to put into it, how you want to grab words so they ring in the mouth. You say to me: Am I doing the right thing, Papa? Me, I say: One writes but words, not the word, you should have spoken. To write is to take the conch out of the sea to shout: here's the conch! The word replies: Where's the sea? But that's not the important thing.  I am going and you're staying. I spoke but you, you're writing, announcing that you come from the word. You give me your hand over the distance. It's all very nice, but you just touch the distance..."

-Patrick Chamoiseau, Solibo Magnificent