1pm Sunday: Baleek (porcelain factory and tea room). Bus @ B&B 12:30pm
Belleek Pottery
In most of Ireland, the city centre is called a Square, but in Donegal County it’s called a diamond.
At the pottery factory, I got a Celtic knotwork vase, inspired by the Book of Kells. Afterwards, the bus ride was a sort of guided tour by a little kid named Jeff, John’s son (the guy who owns and built the B&B), and he did a good job for a little kid. Caroline, Liz and I got dropped off downtown (the diamond pretty much) and we shopped at a dollar store and a supermarket. Among other things, I bought two boxes of Bentley’s loose tea.
Back in Ballyshannon, we wandered into Dicey O’Reilley’s, where the hurling was going on a wide flat TV screen. That is, it’s a sport with sticks, not people throwing up. I had coke and sesame sticks, but soon I came to the conclusion that everyone was more interested in the game than in conversation, and I soon got tired of the game. The sesame sticks weren’t enough, and after wandering down the street, I came to the fast food place Abracadabra and had a pita sandwich and crisps covered in curry sauce; not bad for fast food, although it’s the only time I’ve had iceberg lettuce in this part of the world—in both England and Ireland they generally use stuff like romaine lettuce the way Americans use iceberg lettuce.
According to Matthew, the bus driver, Ireland has fox, badgers, weasels, no wild cats and not many deer.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Ballyshannon, Ireland
We have arrived in Ballyshannon, in the Republic of Ireland, to attend the annual Ballyshannon Folk Festival, in addition to touring during the day.
“Did you order sunlight today?”
“His account is overdue, so he didn’t get it.”
(That’s a bit of dialogue I just overheard.)
Last night, we had dinner at the Horse’s Head, a pub (not to be confused with the horse’s other end), and I ordered one half pint of Guinness. I sipped very slowly, had a fun conversation, which is a good idea, since it took forever for our table to be served. After that big lunch at Kells, I wasn’t hungry when we showed up, so I just ordered a side dish of steamed vegetables—potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, but I was hungry by the time it arrived.
Afterwards, we went straight to the Ballyshannon Folk Fest, at the Abbey Centre, and saw three bands—North Clegg (and now I want all their CDs!) Joe Burke and Anne Conroy, and Altan (I’m much more familiar with Altan—they’re on the radio frequently).
I bought the Ballyshannon poster and the Altan CD. North Clegg didn’t bring CDs, but you can order them from their website (or perhaps get them at the Trad Irish music store at Temple Bar).
The tour group is spread between three Bed and Breakfasts, and I’m at the one that’s a one-mile walk away. So we walked to it last night, after the fest, and the weather was lovely and not raining. Chilly, but when you’re walking this is a good thing.
When we came to the Bed and Breakfast and crossed the street, I was really impressed—it looked like a big white mansion with a slightly winding drive flanked by landscaping. We came in through the front door, and I have room #2, which is in the front of the ground floor and has a big bay window, a very soft double bed, a bathroom (really, there’s a shower stall rather than a tub), tea things and even chocolate biscuits with the tea. It’s quite luxurious.
We’re on the tour bus, and we just passed a couple of donkeys in a field, grazing. Quite a few stone walls in this area too—we’re outside of Ballyshannon in County Donegal.
Earlier, while in town, we passed a pack of about five dogs, mostly black, and one was black and white. Border collie. That’s apparently a typical coloring. Someone on the bus said, “Maybe they’re looking for sheep.” And another, I think Phil, said, “They can herd tourists.”
Yesterday, I saw sheep on the bank ravenously tearing into grass, and I was tempted to yell, “Hey, watch out! Leave the roots!”
Dunkineeley. Town we drove through.
Peat—stacked in long piles, and also leaning in big plastic bags.
Places where you see black “earth” on the side of ridges forming a [_] (that’s an upside-down version of the shape I drew in my notebook)—that’s where they’ve been digging peat. Otherwise it looks like turf bog.
Stacked to dry—brick-like pieces
Labor-intensive work—the people in the area have the rights to the peat, so you shouldn’t grab a brick as a souvenir.
Rocky hills, sheep. Some of these sheep have long tails, like eight inches.
Glencolmcille=folk village
Markelt Towers, which we see on the banks overlooking the ocean, were built by the British because they thought Napoleon would invade. They were built from Donegal to Galway. People at the towers could signal with fire to different towers (like in Lord of the Rings).
Going around a curve, we saw two sheep standing in the middle of the narrow road—suddenly a car came along and the sheep ran to the side of the road.
The Irish still make rock walls.
Dolman—Burial ground, 3000 BCE—nobody knows who built this—may have been slave labor. Side stone, capital stone, roof stone, standing stone by entrance.
Earthquakes have made roof stones slide off.
Four dolmans in field with stone walls, one big chunk of quartz in wall—Patty (tour guide) says it was probably taken from a dolman.
As we walked back down the dirt path between fields, heading toward the bus, we stopped at a shed where we heard doggy whines. A member of the tour explained that she had opened the door earlier, and there was a sheepdog puppy in the shed. Apparently it was put in there because it isn't trained yet and would disturb the sheep. I took a picture of its nose sticking out of a crack.
Colum Kell—born in the year 521. Colum--Latin for “dove” Kell—Gaelic for “church”
Hung out at monasteries, copied for himself the Bible, secretly at night, got in trouble. High born, high king of Ireland, O’Connor took him to court. Colum banished to island of Iona—not allowed on Ireland.
561—resulted in a slaughter of this area.
O’Connell left Ireland in 1500—flight of the earls.
After tour, shopping in Donegal Town.
La Bella Donna=restaurant where we met up.
Tour bus—a car that just went by had a bar across the top that said “Doctor” instead of “Taxi,” and it had glowing green lights on either side of the bar.
Ash, oak, sycamore—indiginous trees are deciduous. Firs imported from Scandanavia and aren’t exactly compatible with the environment.
At the B&B--Heather, clover, lots of bright flowers (John planted dandelions just for his kid’s guinea pig).
Dunasi—the name of the B&B, means Forest of Fairies (there’s a fairy ring of trees in the front yard).
Famine graveyard—big hole to fill up with bodies, no tombstones. Don’t know who’s buried there, just know bodies were found (we passed a brown landmark sign that said “Famine Graveyard.”)
Kil=church
Bally=town
Stone walls—the Irish would rather starve than take charity form the Brits, so the Brits paid them a penny a day to build stone walls.
Below 3.5% unemployment now.
Most university grads employed here and high % go on to third level education.
Dicey Reilly’s Pub—extremely crowded pub with a big Buddha over fireplace (but all the pubs were crowded; Saturday night during Bank Holiday and the Festival—people out in front of the pubs and wall-to-wall indoors. We squeezed through the crowd, ordered drinks, and went up a staircase to the upstairs area, where there was the big Buddha that I took a picture of (and it turned out really dark—disposable camera).
“Did you order sunlight today?”
“His account is overdue, so he didn’t get it.”
(That’s a bit of dialogue I just overheard.)
Last night, we had dinner at the Horse’s Head, a pub (not to be confused with the horse’s other end), and I ordered one half pint of Guinness. I sipped very slowly, had a fun conversation, which is a good idea, since it took forever for our table to be served. After that big lunch at Kells, I wasn’t hungry when we showed up, so I just ordered a side dish of steamed vegetables—potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, but I was hungry by the time it arrived.
Afterwards, we went straight to the Ballyshannon Folk Fest, at the Abbey Centre, and saw three bands—North Clegg (and now I want all their CDs!) Joe Burke and Anne Conroy, and Altan (I’m much more familiar with Altan—they’re on the radio frequently).
I bought the Ballyshannon poster and the Altan CD. North Clegg didn’t bring CDs, but you can order them from their website (or perhaps get them at the Trad Irish music store at Temple Bar).
The tour group is spread between three Bed and Breakfasts, and I’m at the one that’s a one-mile walk away. So we walked to it last night, after the fest, and the weather was lovely and not raining. Chilly, but when you’re walking this is a good thing.
When we came to the Bed and Breakfast and crossed the street, I was really impressed—it looked like a big white mansion with a slightly winding drive flanked by landscaping. We came in through the front door, and I have room #2, which is in the front of the ground floor and has a big bay window, a very soft double bed, a bathroom (really, there’s a shower stall rather than a tub), tea things and even chocolate biscuits with the tea. It’s quite luxurious.
We’re on the tour bus, and we just passed a couple of donkeys in a field, grazing. Quite a few stone walls in this area too—we’re outside of Ballyshannon in County Donegal.
Earlier, while in town, we passed a pack of about five dogs, mostly black, and one was black and white. Border collie. That’s apparently a typical coloring. Someone on the bus said, “Maybe they’re looking for sheep.” And another, I think Phil, said, “They can herd tourists.”
Yesterday, I saw sheep on the bank ravenously tearing into grass, and I was tempted to yell, “Hey, watch out! Leave the roots!”
Dunkineeley. Town we drove through.
Peat—stacked in long piles, and also leaning in big plastic bags.
Places where you see black “earth” on the side of ridges forming a [_] (that’s an upside-down version of the shape I drew in my notebook)—that’s where they’ve been digging peat. Otherwise it looks like turf bog.
Stacked to dry—brick-like pieces
Labor-intensive work—the people in the area have the rights to the peat, so you shouldn’t grab a brick as a souvenir.
Rocky hills, sheep. Some of these sheep have long tails, like eight inches.
Glencolmcille=folk village
Markelt Towers, which we see on the banks overlooking the ocean, were built by the British because they thought Napoleon would invade. They were built from Donegal to Galway. People at the towers could signal with fire to different towers (like in Lord of the Rings).
Going around a curve, we saw two sheep standing in the middle of the narrow road—suddenly a car came along and the sheep ran to the side of the road.
The Irish still make rock walls.
Dolman—Burial ground, 3000 BCE—nobody knows who built this—may have been slave labor. Side stone, capital stone, roof stone, standing stone by entrance.
Earthquakes have made roof stones slide off.
Four dolmans in field with stone walls, one big chunk of quartz in wall—Patty (tour guide) says it was probably taken from a dolman.
As we walked back down the dirt path between fields, heading toward the bus, we stopped at a shed where we heard doggy whines. A member of the tour explained that she had opened the door earlier, and there was a sheepdog puppy in the shed. Apparently it was put in there because it isn't trained yet and would disturb the sheep. I took a picture of its nose sticking out of a crack.
Colum Kell—born in the year 521. Colum--Latin for “dove” Kell—Gaelic for “church”
Hung out at monasteries, copied for himself the Bible, secretly at night, got in trouble. High born, high king of Ireland, O’Connor took him to court. Colum banished to island of Iona—not allowed on Ireland.
561—resulted in a slaughter of this area.
O’Connell left Ireland in 1500—flight of the earls.
After tour, shopping in Donegal Town.
La Bella Donna=restaurant where we met up.
Tour bus—a car that just went by had a bar across the top that said “Doctor” instead of “Taxi,” and it had glowing green lights on either side of the bar.
Ash, oak, sycamore—indiginous trees are deciduous. Firs imported from Scandanavia and aren’t exactly compatible with the environment.
At the B&B--Heather, clover, lots of bright flowers (John planted dandelions just for his kid’s guinea pig).
Dunasi—the name of the B&B, means Forest of Fairies (there’s a fairy ring of trees in the front yard).
Famine graveyard—big hole to fill up with bodies, no tombstones. Don’t know who’s buried there, just know bodies were found (we passed a brown landmark sign that said “Famine Graveyard.”)
Kil=church
Bally=town
Stone walls—the Irish would rather starve than take charity form the Brits, so the Brits paid them a penny a day to build stone walls.
Below 3.5% unemployment now.
Most university grads employed here and high % go on to third level education.
Dicey Reilly’s Pub—extremely crowded pub with a big Buddha over fireplace (but all the pubs were crowded; Saturday night during Bank Holiday and the Festival—people out in front of the pubs and wall-to-wall indoors. We squeezed through the crowd, ordered drinks, and went up a staircase to the upstairs area, where there was the big Buddha that I took a picture of (and it turned out really dark—disposable camera).
Friday, July 29, 2005
Wandering Around Ireland
Kilmainham Gaol
Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).
The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.
In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.
Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.
The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.
1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.
West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.
Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.
East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.
“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.
Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)
Kells
We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.
After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.
Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.
I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.
Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.
Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)
The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.
Enneskellin
We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.
Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.
It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.
Ballyshannon
Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)
We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”
“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.
Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon
The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”
Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).
Kilmainham is a big old stone historic prison in Dublin. Over the front door is a fascinating carved design of a five-headed serpent or dragon. (I have so got to make a sculpture based on it).
The old jail (gaol) is close to the Irish Museum of Modern Art, so we got to drive around this beautiful 18th century building, which was recently fixed up according to the bus driver, Matthew. Behind the museum, we saw a very beautiful French garden, with statues and carefully trimmed shrubs that form geometric pattern, very symmetrical set up. Toward back are two mazes made from shrubs. Front gates—just enough room to get the bus through, dark grey, have upper part of armor on posts on either side of gate. But there wasn’t room for the bus to get to the prison through there, so we had to turn around and use a different route.
In one jail yard, like a courtyard, stones were pulled up, body placed under, and quicklime poured to dissolve the body—make room for more bodies.
Great Famine—jail was crowded, because people committed crimes (stealing) to get in jail so they’d be guaranteed one meal a day. Before it was two a day, but they wanted to discourage people from committing crimes just to get in prison. Didn’t work.
The cells were build for one prisoner each, but sometimes it was overcrowded, like five in one cell during the Famine. 170 cells total.
1921—Three prisoners tried to break out, didn’t work first and second nights. On the third night, one (Mike Mahoney?) decided not to participate because 1) it didn’t work before and 2) he was innocent of the crime and expected he’d be set free after his trial, which was coming up soon. But the breakout was a success the third day, and the guy who decided not to escape was falsely accused by a false witness and hanged.
West Wing—oldest remaining part of Kilmainham Gaol, built in the 1700s, and that’s where DeValera’s cell is—or down the hall.
Room with green fireplace: Charles Parnell’s cell, furniture from his house, fire every day, visitors and his own family. Special because he was politician, wealthy and famous. He was allowed to leave his cell, walk around, even take a walk to the park. When his nephew died in Paris, he was allowed to go out for two weeks, as long as he promised to return. He went for the funeral in Paris, and kept his promise: returned in two weeks.
He attempted to gain independence through nonviolent means, through communicating with the English parliament. His speeches, however, inspired some people to rebel not so peacefully, and that resulted in his going to jail.
East Wing—Victorian, open and airy (looks like Reading Gaol, in the film Wilde). Glass ceiling, like a conservatory. Inside painted white, archways, natural light. Some of the cells have artwork you can see through the peephole—it’s all relevant to the prison’s history (particularly as a political prison—all the rebels of 1916, 97 men, were executed there). One painting was called “When Love Dies” and had as the background full-size white bricks that blended with the wall, and grey, black—that at some point I thought looked like a penis and at some point I thought looked like a chain that was breaking. “Woman weeping” was abstract-ish—face with a hand on the cheek, I think, and mostly in red—and a cloth was draped over half the canvas.
“The Prison Cell”—messy ball of rusty wire/metal, about three feet tall and six feet wide, reminiscent of a nest. Also, in the big open center space, there are metal walkways for each of the three levels, and metal stairs. Spiral metal staircase leading to top level and used for feeding time. With this set up, one guard could keep an eye on many cells at once. Also rolled out a carpet as he moved along so he cold sneak up on prisoners. Some prisoners carved messages over the outside of the cell door, such as the town they came from. One said “To let” and another gave the name of a hotel.
Graffiti decorates many of the cell walls. Steps are generally very worn, some even slanting downward. It took 26 years to renovate starting in the 1940s, but there are still some unsafe places, and some walls in corridors have a derelict, crumbly look. ("I do not like yon Cascius. He hath a derelict and crumbly look." OK, that's not quite Shakespeare.)
Kells
We took a one-hour drive to the town of Kells, where some of us had lunch at the Heritage Centre (tea, potatoes with Mediterranean vegetables). Liz mentioned at lunch: Americans for the Arts has a website that gives statistics on stuff like how many artists in a town.
After lunch, I lost track of where everyone was and wandered up the road. I saw a really old—medieval—round tower in the distance, so I went for it. It was at St. Colum’s Church, build in 1805 and the yard is full of extremely old tombstones, a few of which are high crosses, as in Celtic knotwork. Also, there’s a round tower in ruins (missing the pointed roof) and I drew a quick sketch, since I forgot to put a new disposable camera in my purse and don’t want to ask Matthew (the driver) to open the luggage compartment just so I can get a camera out of my bag. I was concerned about time, because it was an hour by the time we left the Heritage Centre, so I only had one half hour to wander through the town. I met up with a couple more people-Dave & Lynn—and we walked back to the Centre, where they went in for brochures and I sketched the medieval high cross in front of the Centre.
Something I didn’t get around to writing in Dublin: not all Irish people have red or blonde hair. Some have brown or black hair. Some have pink, or maroon and black, or yellow and black. I saw one guy with butt-length blonde dreadlocks. Also, there are Asians and Africans, some English or Japanese tourists, and people speaking what sounds like Slavic languages. Bosnian refugees? This of course all applies to Dublin, not the rest of Ireland.
I just saw a stone hawk with a horse’s head. It was in front of someone’s house.
Here I am writing on a moving bus, tricky as it is, and we’re listening to pretty Irish music. Bob McWilliams, being the radio announcer, bought some CDs in Dublin and is sharing them with us. Later they will no doubt be on the air, and I might even turn on the radio and recognize them. Dave joked that he could do his radio show right here on the b us. Bob also mentioned that he’s already recorded Sunday’s show in Kansas.
Bush=Terror
(Graffitti on back of highway sign—I had to smile, glad I’m not the only one who’s noticed that Shrubco is the most dangerous terrorist organization on the planet.)
The Iron Mountains—visible from the bus, not as high as the Rockies, but beautiful. A big one is flattish.
Enneskellin
We’re in Northern Ireland! Duck! Just kidding. No wonder I saw a British flag on top of a tower down the highway; that sort of weirded me out. Dave didn’t announce that we’re in Northern Ireland (by the way) until after we’d passed that flag.
Royalist flag: white background, red cross, white star in center with red hand, British crown above star and small British flag in upper right corner. These flags and British flags fluttering on many street light poles—every bloody pole. Showing off loyalty to England. Enneskellin is very Protestant and Royalist, but Dave said this isn’t as militant about it as other towns in Northern Ireland.
It’s just as well that we’re just passing through on our way to Ballyshannon, because this place gives me the creeps. To think my psycho relatives make such a big deal about our Irish ancestry, when this is where my Scotch-Irish ancestors came from! But then, that’s the side of the family that I am utterly disenchanted with—weird that I could have been brainwashed about relatives for all these years. For that matter, it’s gotten so anymore it’s hard not to be ashamed of being white. Sure, I know we’re all a part of this planet and everyone is part of the human family, but this attitude I've recently developed is thanks to Shrubco, Bigotville, and my Evil Stepfamily.
Ballyshannon
Last night, still in Dublin, we arrived at the Cultural Center—a beautiful yellow Georgian house—and went downstairs, through a room, upstairs, etc, like it was a maze, till we were in the balcony of an auditorium. When we went through what looked like a living room, there was a lovely fireplace and I could smell a peat fire (and see it) for the first time. Strange, smoky/earthy scent. (Actually, later Dave explained that that was a particular type of wood fire, not peat. So much for that.)
We just arrived in County Donegal—a yellow house had green words painted on the facade: “Welcome to Donegal.”
“79 people killed on Donegal roads in 2004”—sign we just passed, right after talking about the perilous road.
Stuck in traffic just outside of Ballyshannon--street sign ahead:
Beal atha Seanaidh
Ballyshannon
The first person to use the bus toilet was Matt the judge, and at least one person took a picture of him opening the door, amidst much giggling. We’ve been on the bus a bit too long. Noel took a picture, and Dave (not the guide, the other Dave) said, “We know what you really want to take a picture of!”
Ballyshannon is the oldest town in Ireland (according to the welcome sign).
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Bru Na Boigne, Ireland
Dublin
I can hear seagulls from my hotel room. There are casement windows, and after I put on sunscreen I heard rain and took a peak out the window. Raining steadily. What a waste of sunscreen.
On the drive back from Knowth, I just saw five beehive cabins of stone…but they looked really small and like they were built recently, not a thousand years ago. Touristy, I guess.
One hour drive from Dublin to Knowth (I enjoyed the scenery from the bus, like old churches with round towers and very old graveyards).
Bru na Boigne
On the way to Bru na Boigne, we passed, just outside Dublin, an old church with a round tower and a beautiful cemetery. I particularly noticed a white marble effigy with a darker stone surrounding it, as a platform and roof with many columns surrounding the white figure. There was a small mausoleum by it. It occurred to me that Tim Burton should use this scene in a film. Really, he’d have a great time filming in Ireland. Maybe I should send him an e-mail. Mmm, maybe not.
Being at Knowth, drizzle and all, was like being home at last. Neolithic passage graves that predate the pyramids, actually some of them are more than just graves. More like temples, same as Newgrange (which we drove right past—I saw it up on a hill on my left! I was so tempted to yell, “Stop the bus!” and pull out my camera—of course, I figured I’d get postcards at the visitors center that would be better pictures than I’d take).
At the Bru na Boigne visitors center, we had a little time in the shop, where I grabbed a whole bunch of books about Newgrange, Knowth, one on Dowth (the other passage grave at Bru na Boigne, and the least popular since it hasn’t been restored), and Neolithic Ireland in general. I also got a book on Sheela-na-gigs, and a clay necklace with Newgrange swirleys on it.
After the tour, we went back to the visitors center and had lunch. I had a rich piece of chocolate cake. And of course tea.
We also went into a big round room where we watched a film about Newgrange and then went through a door into a tunnel and room that are a recreation of the main chamber of Newgrange, where we got to witness a simulation of what happens on Winter Solstice at Newgrange, when the sunlight goes through the little window over the front door. That was sublime.
Back in Dublin
Dublin: Museum of Ireland—gold torques and such, Tara brooch
Trinity College: Book of Kells and library
Walk with Linda to Hard Rock Café and wool mill—the latter turned out to be closed, but down the street was an African art shop—statues and boxes and beads, oh my, and I had to dash in and bought a purple and white stone cat.
No trouble understanding tour guides—and they’re experts in the field, archeologists. Kieran, the tour guide at the Museum, was a cute Irish boy with curly black hair, big black eyes and long lashes.
Jackdaw—birds that I thought were part crow/ part pigeon (lots of them were at Trinity College, and a guard at the doorway to the Book of Kells explained what they are).
Evening—going to a concert (after dinner at the Eliza Lodge). Pretty eighteenth century building (most of the buildings in Dublin seem to be 18th century), concert in an auditorium where we sat in the balcony, the performers mostly looked like they were about twenty years old. One set of bagpipes, plenty of fiddles and drums and an accordion. Afterward, we went into a basement area, where there was more music and dance in front of a fireplace and we had tea. It was a much more intimate setting.
I can hear seagulls from my hotel room. There are casement windows, and after I put on sunscreen I heard rain and took a peak out the window. Raining steadily. What a waste of sunscreen.
On the drive back from Knowth, I just saw five beehive cabins of stone…but they looked really small and like they were built recently, not a thousand years ago. Touristy, I guess.
One hour drive from Dublin to Knowth (I enjoyed the scenery from the bus, like old churches with round towers and very old graveyards).
Bru na Boigne
On the way to Bru na Boigne, we passed, just outside Dublin, an old church with a round tower and a beautiful cemetery. I particularly noticed a white marble effigy with a darker stone surrounding it, as a platform and roof with many columns surrounding the white figure. There was a small mausoleum by it. It occurred to me that Tim Burton should use this scene in a film. Really, he’d have a great time filming in Ireland. Maybe I should send him an e-mail. Mmm, maybe not.
Being at Knowth, drizzle and all, was like being home at last. Neolithic passage graves that predate the pyramids, actually some of them are more than just graves. More like temples, same as Newgrange (which we drove right past—I saw it up on a hill on my left! I was so tempted to yell, “Stop the bus!” and pull out my camera—of course, I figured I’d get postcards at the visitors center that would be better pictures than I’d take).
At the Bru na Boigne visitors center, we had a little time in the shop, where I grabbed a whole bunch of books about Newgrange, Knowth, one on Dowth (the other passage grave at Bru na Boigne, and the least popular since it hasn’t been restored), and Neolithic Ireland in general. I also got a book on Sheela-na-gigs, and a clay necklace with Newgrange swirleys on it.
After the tour, we went back to the visitors center and had lunch. I had a rich piece of chocolate cake. And of course tea.
We also went into a big round room where we watched a film about Newgrange and then went through a door into a tunnel and room that are a recreation of the main chamber of Newgrange, where we got to witness a simulation of what happens on Winter Solstice at Newgrange, when the sunlight goes through the little window over the front door. That was sublime.
Back in Dublin
Dublin: Museum of Ireland—gold torques and such, Tara brooch
Trinity College: Book of Kells and library
Walk with Linda to Hard Rock Café and wool mill—the latter turned out to be closed, but down the street was an African art shop—statues and boxes and beads, oh my, and I had to dash in and bought a purple and white stone cat.
No trouble understanding tour guides—and they’re experts in the field, archeologists. Kieran, the tour guide at the Museum, was a cute Irish boy with curly black hair, big black eyes and long lashes.
Jackdaw—birds that I thought were part crow/ part pigeon (lots of them were at Trinity College, and a guard at the doorway to the Book of Kells explained what they are).
Evening—going to a concert (after dinner at the Eliza Lodge). Pretty eighteenth century building (most of the buildings in Dublin seem to be 18th century), concert in an auditorium where we sat in the balcony, the performers mostly looked like they were about twenty years old. One set of bagpipes, plenty of fiddles and drums and an accordion. Afterward, we went into a basement area, where there was more music and dance in front of a fireplace and we had tea. It was a much more intimate setting.
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Dublin and Oscar Wilde
I just saw a bird that at first I thought was a pigeon, but it crowed. Wow, I never thought I’d hear a noise like that out of a pigeon. I took another look, and it appears to be a cross between a crow and a pigeon—it has the white, blue and grey wings of a pigeon but otherwise is a black crow. Weird. (Later I saw more of these birds and learned that they're jackdaws.)
I’ve returned to the Archbishop Ryan Park after going over and taking pictures of 1 Merrion Square, the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It’s only down the street from the house where he was born, which is much more modest, just a tall rectangle that appears to be part of an apartment building—meaning, the buildings are identical (18th century Georgian) and right up against each other, no space at all. But anyway, I’m at this sort of patio in the park. You go up cobblestone steps to a cobblestone surface with park benches (green with black ends and with graffiti), and a stone mausoleum-like structure with three bricked-in archways and urns on top.
Just down the walkway is the Oscar Wilde Memorial, otherwise known as the Fag on the Crag—a sculpture of him on a rock—where tourists from different countries are continually flocking. A student sat down and started sketching him. Across the path from him are two rectangular, glossy dark stone pillars with numerous quotes, on all four sides; in his handwriting. On top of each is a statue representing beauty—one a male torso and the other a nude female, both in Greek style, very Oscar Wilde.
Some of the Oscar Wilde quotes on columns:
There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but molds it to its purpose.
Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Being natural is only a pose.
It seems to me all look at nature too much and live with it too little.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
I have slightly more than an hour before I have to be back at the lodge (Eliza Lodge) to meet up with the rest of the tour group—but actually check-in is 1 pm, in less than an hour, since it’s 12:15. Birds are trilling, the weather is beautiful (very below 100 degrees), and beautiful plants surround me. There are a few people around, but it’s not a big crowd like around Temple Bar and the Quay.
I feel like I’ve wandered all over Central Dublin—maybe I have. I found my way to the Abbey Theatre, but the box office opens at 10:30 am, and I was an hour early (gee, at the Symphony it was 9 am). So I walked around to get to know the neighborhood, like O’Connor Street I saw a pretty building, Neoclassical with columns and statues on the roof—in the distance and decided to find out what it was. It turned out to be the Post Office, and right there in the front window is the famous statue of Cuchulain commemorating the rebellion of 1916. After that, I wandered my way back across the river (the Halfpenny Bridge is cute, and I’ve crossed it about three times now) and I more or less circled the Temple Bar areas, looking at what shops are there. Boots is one of them, and a juice/sandwich shop called O’Brien’s is about three locations that I’ve seen so far. After that, I went back to the Abbey Theatre and got a ticket for The Importance of Being Earnest. Then I headed back across the bridge and found the birthplace of Oscar Wilde (21 Westland Row), and the house where he grew up (1 Merrion Square, now the College of Dublin), and the Oscar Wilde Monument. Quite a communing with Oscar Wilde.
Dub-lin (Black Pool)—Viking settlement is now under Dublin Corporate Offices (government office—ugly building)
Later—9:10 pm—
When I was done hanging out with Oscar, I got back to the Eliza Lodge, when I heard a cheerful male voice call, “Susan!” I turned and there was Phil Wilke, a representative of Kansas Public Radio, which is responsible for this tour. He was accompanied by our guide, Dave. I commented on how startling it was that I’d only been in the country for a few hours, and someone called my name. So we had jokes about “Who do you know in Ireland” along with greetings. It turned out that most of the tour group had arrived and my room wasn’t ready yet. Maid service was working on it, but I could hang out in the first floor lounge (one floor up). So I went up there and chatted with other members of the tour. Eventually my room was done and I got my luggage in it and it wasn’t long after we had a meeting in the lounge, re-introducing ourselves and whatnot.
Dave gave us a walking tour and sort of history lesson on Viking Dublin. Next to Christ Church Cathedral is a mosaic of the floor plan of a Viking house, the foundations of which are now a few feet away under a butt-ugly new office building. On the site of this building, archeologists found a treasure trove of Viking stuff, and they had a limited time to unearth it because the jerks wouldn’t change their plans to start building the ugly box on a specific date. Ugly, plain, grey concrete block, and there’s still an ancient treasure trove under it, though what they did excavate is in a local museum, the Dublin History Museum.
We also walked around the façade of Christ Church Cathedral, where Dave said they have vespers, I think it’s called, a choir singing something quiet and soothing, and it’s supposed to be at 6 pm—he even double-checked. And we walked to Trinity College—which is gorgeous—and before that we went to a piece of the original Dublin Wall, dating to 1180 and in excellent shape—even the metal gate, in an archway, has survived. It leads to an old church called St. Aul’s or something. Before Trinity, we went to Dublin Castle and looked at the lovely eighteenth century courtyard. At Trinity College, we admired the architecture and went in to a building with a café where some of us got drinks, and some used the restroom. (I got a raspberry-cranberry fruit juice that was yum yum.)
Afterwards, some of us went to a pub near the lodge—Fitzsimmons—for tea and to socialize, and I ordered a snack in addition to tea, since I skipped lunch—it was grilled French bread topped with cheese. It turned out to be a big slice accompanied by a salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dressing. The tea was great—I asked for cream, and there was a lump of real cream in the bottom of my cup, in addition to a small porcelain pitcher of milk.
When we went to hear the music at Christ Church Cathedral, the doors were locked, so we waited around for someone to open the doors (there are benches just outside) and talked. I chatted with Liz, who volunteers with the Lawrence Public Library, and we talked library talk and also about my sculpting with sculpey, she told me about how she dies it off and on—though not in the past five years—and she’s taught kids to sculpt. Actually, she’s a professor in the Design department at KU in Lawrence.
Since the music wasn’t happening after all, we went to another pub near the Lodge, the Farriday or something like that (it’s painted bright red and the other is brown) and it just had still water (my snack had been filling enough) while the others had meals—and most had Guinness. I’ll probably try it tomorrow, or certainly at some point during the trip, since I haven’t tasted it since college…and didn’t like it then.
I afterwards went to the Internet café—the keyboard is like in England, so I grope around the keyboard looking for the right shift key. And AOL long distance has gotten weirder—apparently I can’t just click on addresses and send—I have to type up all the addresses.
I’ve returned to the Archbishop Ryan Park after going over and taking pictures of 1 Merrion Square, the house where Oscar Wilde grew up. It’s only down the street from the house where he was born, which is much more modest, just a tall rectangle that appears to be part of an apartment building—meaning, the buildings are identical (18th century Georgian) and right up against each other, no space at all. But anyway, I’m at this sort of patio in the park. You go up cobblestone steps to a cobblestone surface with park benches (green with black ends and with graffiti), and a stone mausoleum-like structure with three bricked-in archways and urns on top.
Just down the walkway is the Oscar Wilde Memorial, otherwise known as the Fag on the Crag—a sculpture of him on a rock—where tourists from different countries are continually flocking. A student sat down and started sketching him. Across the path from him are two rectangular, glossy dark stone pillars with numerous quotes, on all four sides; in his handwriting. On top of each is a statue representing beauty—one a male torso and the other a nude female, both in Greek style, very Oscar Wilde.
Some of the Oscar Wilde quotes on columns:
There is only one thing worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.
Literature always anticipates life. It does not copy it but molds it to its purpose.
Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.
Being natural is only a pose.
It seems to me all look at nature too much and live with it too little.
All art is at once surface and symbol.
A thing is not necessarily true because a man dies for it.
This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.
Only dull people are brilliant at breakfast.
Whenever people agree with me I always feel I must be wrong.
I have slightly more than an hour before I have to be back at the lodge (Eliza Lodge) to meet up with the rest of the tour group—but actually check-in is 1 pm, in less than an hour, since it’s 12:15. Birds are trilling, the weather is beautiful (very below 100 degrees), and beautiful plants surround me. There are a few people around, but it’s not a big crowd like around Temple Bar and the Quay.
I feel like I’ve wandered all over Central Dublin—maybe I have. I found my way to the Abbey Theatre, but the box office opens at 10:30 am, and I was an hour early (gee, at the Symphony it was 9 am). So I walked around to get to know the neighborhood, like O’Connor Street I saw a pretty building, Neoclassical with columns and statues on the roof—in the distance and decided to find out what it was. It turned out to be the Post Office, and right there in the front window is the famous statue of Cuchulain commemorating the rebellion of 1916. After that, I wandered my way back across the river (the Halfpenny Bridge is cute, and I’ve crossed it about three times now) and I more or less circled the Temple Bar areas, looking at what shops are there. Boots is one of them, and a juice/sandwich shop called O’Brien’s is about three locations that I’ve seen so far. After that, I went back to the Abbey Theatre and got a ticket for The Importance of Being Earnest. Then I headed back across the bridge and found the birthplace of Oscar Wilde (21 Westland Row), and the house where he grew up (1 Merrion Square, now the College of Dublin), and the Oscar Wilde Monument. Quite a communing with Oscar Wilde.
Dub-lin (Black Pool)—Viking settlement is now under Dublin Corporate Offices (government office—ugly building)
Later—9:10 pm—
When I was done hanging out with Oscar, I got back to the Eliza Lodge, when I heard a cheerful male voice call, “Susan!” I turned and there was Phil Wilke, a representative of Kansas Public Radio, which is responsible for this tour. He was accompanied by our guide, Dave. I commented on how startling it was that I’d only been in the country for a few hours, and someone called my name. So we had jokes about “Who do you know in Ireland” along with greetings. It turned out that most of the tour group had arrived and my room wasn’t ready yet. Maid service was working on it, but I could hang out in the first floor lounge (one floor up). So I went up there and chatted with other members of the tour. Eventually my room was done and I got my luggage in it and it wasn’t long after we had a meeting in the lounge, re-introducing ourselves and whatnot.
Dave gave us a walking tour and sort of history lesson on Viking Dublin. Next to Christ Church Cathedral is a mosaic of the floor plan of a Viking house, the foundations of which are now a few feet away under a butt-ugly new office building. On the site of this building, archeologists found a treasure trove of Viking stuff, and they had a limited time to unearth it because the jerks wouldn’t change their plans to start building the ugly box on a specific date. Ugly, plain, grey concrete block, and there’s still an ancient treasure trove under it, though what they did excavate is in a local museum, the Dublin History Museum.
We also walked around the façade of Christ Church Cathedral, where Dave said they have vespers, I think it’s called, a choir singing something quiet and soothing, and it’s supposed to be at 6 pm—he even double-checked. And we walked to Trinity College—which is gorgeous—and before that we went to a piece of the original Dublin Wall, dating to 1180 and in excellent shape—even the metal gate, in an archway, has survived. It leads to an old church called St. Aul’s or something. Before Trinity, we went to Dublin Castle and looked at the lovely eighteenth century courtyard. At Trinity College, we admired the architecture and went in to a building with a café where some of us got drinks, and some used the restroom. (I got a raspberry-cranberry fruit juice that was yum yum.)
Afterwards, some of us went to a pub near the lodge—Fitzsimmons—for tea and to socialize, and I ordered a snack in addition to tea, since I skipped lunch—it was grilled French bread topped with cheese. It turned out to be a big slice accompanied by a salad of romaine lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, olives, and dressing. The tea was great—I asked for cream, and there was a lump of real cream in the bottom of my cup, in addition to a small porcelain pitcher of milk.
When we went to hear the music at Christ Church Cathedral, the doors were locked, so we waited around for someone to open the doors (there are benches just outside) and talked. I chatted with Liz, who volunteers with the Lawrence Public Library, and we talked library talk and also about my sculpting with sculpey, she told me about how she dies it off and on—though not in the past five years—and she’s taught kids to sculpt. Actually, she’s a professor in the Design department at KU in Lawrence.
Since the music wasn’t happening after all, we went to another pub near the Lodge, the Farriday or something like that (it’s painted bright red and the other is brown) and it just had still water (my snack had been filling enough) while the others had meals—and most had Guinness. I’ll probably try it tomorrow, or certainly at some point during the trip, since I haven’t tasted it since college…and didn’t like it then.
I afterwards went to the Internet café—the keyboard is like in England, so I grope around the keyboard looking for the right shift key. And AOL long distance has gotten weirder—apparently I can’t just click on addresses and send—I have to type up all the addresses.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
On the Rocky Road to Dublin
Kansas City Airport
Before waking up to my alarm, I was having a dream in which I was at a Tibetan Buddhist temple in North America, at least I’m pretty sure it was this continent. The room was painted dark red and was large, and there was a stage-like section at the front of the room where lamas were dressed in brilliantly colored brocade robes. I sat in the front row center, about six feet back from the lamas, at a dark wood table that was long and had a somewhat rough surface, full of grooves and texture.
With me sat several young Westerners, white and in their twenties. Meanwhile, there was a ritual, or almost a sort of lecture, that the lamas (or two of them—there were about four) spoke entirely in Tibetan, and I had no idea what they were saying. When they were finished, I didn’t remember whether they moved away, but the young people I sat with got into a conversation. While they spoke, I noticed at some point a small, rectangular dark brown tray sitting on the table in front of me, about a foot away from the edge I sat at. The kids got interested in it, and I suddenly realized what the contents were, and I said, “Oh, it’s for making sand mandalas.” They didn’t comment and turned to something else, while I looked at the sand—a mess of colorful sand that looked like it was left over from a sand mandala, and the colors were now mixed together, discarded, looking forgotten, dingy, and rejected. There were reds and yellow, but they were dark and dingy, not bright and happy.
Next I noticed that those young people were giving away some sort of paper—or list perhaps—and they were signing up for something, perhaps for attendance to this event. They had little white pieces of paper, like handwritten receipt, and I waited for my turn to sign up. I said something, and finally after everyone else had written on the paper, they scooted a little brown tray (clay, matching the tray that contained the sand) and on it was one of the slips of paper. I looked down at it, and it was blank except for the lines, and suddenly I was the only one at the table-the kids had left me. Actually, I had made attempts to be in their conversation, and the second time I did so was just as they pushed the piece of paper toward me—like they left right after I opened my big mouth.
The most noticeable theme—or themes--in this dream were:
1) MATERIAL THINGS—I was fascinated by the beautiful brocade robes the lamas wore, the patterns and colors, in a “oh, how pretty!” sort of way, like a child, rather than feeling particularly spiritual. I stroked the bumpy texture of the table. I picked up a table scarf made of red brocade and inspected it, discovering that the yellow silk – had been sewn on somewhat sloppily by machine, and I told myself that if they’d gone around the corners by hand, it would have turned out better. It was mostly a rectangular shape except for a circular center and therefore had sharp curves. Also, the sand was dingy and left-over, no longer of spiritual significance. In short, I was gazing at this temple all wrong, in a visual and materialist rather than spiritual sort of way. (Nonetheless, aesthetic, and aesthetics can be very spiritual.)
2) FEELING OUT OF PLACE, SOCIALLY INEPT—I didn’t understand what the lamas were saying and wasn’t paying much attention to the words or gestures, just to their pretty clothing. I felt extremely awkward and out of place, concerned about what this group of young people would think of me, a visitor—an outsider. I made my inept attempt at participating in their conversation, only making a fool of myself and chasing them away—I’ve had countless such experiences when I’ve attempted small talk or attempted to mingle, so it’s really no wonder I’m so asocial and have sort of given up socializing for the most part. And when they all disappeared at the end of the dream, I felt rejected and alienated. The only people I even attempted to interact with were young Westerners with American accents, probably college students (and college is the only long-term atmosphere where I was really at home); I didn’t get into conversation with the lamas or with any Buddhist nuns, or anyone from the east.
It was, in short, not an auspicious dream, and all too reminiscent of Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. Like, am I really more fascinated by the showy stuff of Buddhism than serious about cultivating lovingkindness, detachment, and wisdom?
I’m at a café in the airport—I want to use the restroom before I go into the, oh, terminal waiting room, since you have to go through the security check point every time.
Yesterday, Aunt Heinrich Himmler dropped by in the evening to bid me farewell, and I showed her the canned cat food for Cheetah and all that. I did show her my new tall cabinet, and she looked at some of the statues I’ve made lately. I think she’s not only going deaf but totally losing her short term memory. Last time she visited me, I was working on my statue “The Snakes Return to Ireland,” a woman in traditional Irish dress and draped with snakes—or rather, a Celtic version of the Snake Goddess. This time, my aunt looked at the statue and asked, “Is this St. Patrick?” I did not snort, but simply explained (again, and uncomfortably) the name of the statue. It’s rather anti-St. Patrick, the Goddess-rejecting pompous ass. So there.
I have a bunch of my Pagan art upstairs, where she’s not likely to see them. It’s very fortunate that conservative relatives who are old and have bad knees are not crazy about climbing the stairs, and in some cases would rather sleep on the couch. But of course the statues are downstairs while I’m making them in the dining room and living room, and now what with the display cabinet downstairs. I’ve noticed with Aunt H.H. that she can look at such statues as “The Snakes Return to Ireland” and not see them for what they really are, Goddess art, and fortunately she’s not, so far as I can tell, suspicious. (If she were suspicious, I figure she wouldn’t have said anything about St. Patrick, and she probably wouldn’t talk about being Christian when she’s sitting at my dining room table in front of Goddesses, Buddhas and fairies-- or who knows, maybe she would.)
Another sculpture was Death—I took that statue and put her on top of the TV in order to take her photo in front of the bright blue wall. Ethel didn’t ask what her name is, though I was ready to say that she’s Death, even to mention that she’s based on a character in a comic book series. My statue of Death has one hand up in the Peace sign. Aunt H.H. thought it was a “victory” sign, of all things! That weirded me out, really, since I thought everyone on this planet is familiar with the peace sign—even Nixon was. I let her know that no, it’s a peace sign, and I made the sign with my left hand. H.H. explained that after WWII it was a “victory” sign and she added that “That was the beginning of peace,” displaying her total ignorance of what peace really is, far more than the opposite of war. In a country where 700,000 women are raped daily, peace does not thrive. It is so annoying and trying to be surrounded by people who assume patriarchy is the only way (even if they simultaneously don’t know what patriarchy is).
On the First Plane
Midwest Airlines seats are big, cushy, and brown. There are metal foot racks that fold in and out, and the trays are big and have a section for a cup or for resting glasses. I think I might want to keep this in mind. Airplanes for fat people. (Actually, I’d like to lose weight, but easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m not too fat for other airlines and hope I never shall be.)
I’ve decided that I prefer puffy clouds to streaking clouds or vague, shapeless mist. Puffy rolling clouds, even puffy clouds with somewhat circular holes, similar to whirlpools. Except I don’t think they were spinning—no, that would be a tornado.
As the plane was coming in to land in Milwaukee (one short stop), I looked down and thought the scene looked like mountains, models rather than the real thing. There were modern and not-so-modern suburban houses, many with swimming pools in the back yard forming b right blue circles, occasionally bright blue ovals. The only thing to suggest that it wasn’t a model was the tiny moving cars on the roads.
When the plane takes off again, it will head for Boston, where I’ll be getting on another plane…to Dublin.
Boston Airport
I had no idea Bostonians talk like gangsters—or should I say “gaingstas.” Actually, their accents remind me of 1940s movie comedies, and various characters from films. Now I’m hearing Irish accents. I could swoon.
Before waking up to my alarm, I was having a dream in which I was at a Tibetan Buddhist temple in North America, at least I’m pretty sure it was this continent. The room was painted dark red and was large, and there was a stage-like section at the front of the room where lamas were dressed in brilliantly colored brocade robes. I sat in the front row center, about six feet back from the lamas, at a dark wood table that was long and had a somewhat rough surface, full of grooves and texture.
With me sat several young Westerners, white and in their twenties. Meanwhile, there was a ritual, or almost a sort of lecture, that the lamas (or two of them—there were about four) spoke entirely in Tibetan, and I had no idea what they were saying. When they were finished, I didn’t remember whether they moved away, but the young people I sat with got into a conversation. While they spoke, I noticed at some point a small, rectangular dark brown tray sitting on the table in front of me, about a foot away from the edge I sat at. The kids got interested in it, and I suddenly realized what the contents were, and I said, “Oh, it’s for making sand mandalas.” They didn’t comment and turned to something else, while I looked at the sand—a mess of colorful sand that looked like it was left over from a sand mandala, and the colors were now mixed together, discarded, looking forgotten, dingy, and rejected. There were reds and yellow, but they were dark and dingy, not bright and happy.
Next I noticed that those young people were giving away some sort of paper—or list perhaps—and they were signing up for something, perhaps for attendance to this event. They had little white pieces of paper, like handwritten receipt, and I waited for my turn to sign up. I said something, and finally after everyone else had written on the paper, they scooted a little brown tray (clay, matching the tray that contained the sand) and on it was one of the slips of paper. I looked down at it, and it was blank except for the lines, and suddenly I was the only one at the table-the kids had left me. Actually, I had made attempts to be in their conversation, and the second time I did so was just as they pushed the piece of paper toward me—like they left right after I opened my big mouth.
The most noticeable theme—or themes--in this dream were:
1) MATERIAL THINGS—I was fascinated by the beautiful brocade robes the lamas wore, the patterns and colors, in a “oh, how pretty!” sort of way, like a child, rather than feeling particularly spiritual. I stroked the bumpy texture of the table. I picked up a table scarf made of red brocade and inspected it, discovering that the yellow silk – had been sewn on somewhat sloppily by machine, and I told myself that if they’d gone around the corners by hand, it would have turned out better. It was mostly a rectangular shape except for a circular center and therefore had sharp curves. Also, the sand was dingy and left-over, no longer of spiritual significance. In short, I was gazing at this temple all wrong, in a visual and materialist rather than spiritual sort of way. (Nonetheless, aesthetic, and aesthetics can be very spiritual.)
2) FEELING OUT OF PLACE, SOCIALLY INEPT—I didn’t understand what the lamas were saying and wasn’t paying much attention to the words or gestures, just to their pretty clothing. I felt extremely awkward and out of place, concerned about what this group of young people would think of me, a visitor—an outsider. I made my inept attempt at participating in their conversation, only making a fool of myself and chasing them away—I’ve had countless such experiences when I’ve attempted small talk or attempted to mingle, so it’s really no wonder I’m so asocial and have sort of given up socializing for the most part. And when they all disappeared at the end of the dream, I felt rejected and alienated. The only people I even attempted to interact with were young Westerners with American accents, probably college students (and college is the only long-term atmosphere where I was really at home); I didn’t get into conversation with the lamas or with any Buddhist nuns, or anyone from the east.
It was, in short, not an auspicious dream, and all too reminiscent of Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism. Like, am I really more fascinated by the showy stuff of Buddhism than serious about cultivating lovingkindness, detachment, and wisdom?
I’m at a café in the airport—I want to use the restroom before I go into the, oh, terminal waiting room, since you have to go through the security check point every time.
Yesterday, Aunt Heinrich Himmler dropped by in the evening to bid me farewell, and I showed her the canned cat food for Cheetah and all that. I did show her my new tall cabinet, and she looked at some of the statues I’ve made lately. I think she’s not only going deaf but totally losing her short term memory. Last time she visited me, I was working on my statue “The Snakes Return to Ireland,” a woman in traditional Irish dress and draped with snakes—or rather, a Celtic version of the Snake Goddess. This time, my aunt looked at the statue and asked, “Is this St. Patrick?” I did not snort, but simply explained (again, and uncomfortably) the name of the statue. It’s rather anti-St. Patrick, the Goddess-rejecting pompous ass. So there.
I have a bunch of my Pagan art upstairs, where she’s not likely to see them. It’s very fortunate that conservative relatives who are old and have bad knees are not crazy about climbing the stairs, and in some cases would rather sleep on the couch. But of course the statues are downstairs while I’m making them in the dining room and living room, and now what with the display cabinet downstairs. I’ve noticed with Aunt H.H. that she can look at such statues as “The Snakes Return to Ireland” and not see them for what they really are, Goddess art, and fortunately she’s not, so far as I can tell, suspicious. (If she were suspicious, I figure she wouldn’t have said anything about St. Patrick, and she probably wouldn’t talk about being Christian when she’s sitting at my dining room table in front of Goddesses, Buddhas and fairies-- or who knows, maybe she would.)
Another sculpture was Death—I took that statue and put her on top of the TV in order to take her photo in front of the bright blue wall. Ethel didn’t ask what her name is, though I was ready to say that she’s Death, even to mention that she’s based on a character in a comic book series. My statue of Death has one hand up in the Peace sign. Aunt H.H. thought it was a “victory” sign, of all things! That weirded me out, really, since I thought everyone on this planet is familiar with the peace sign—even Nixon was. I let her know that no, it’s a peace sign, and I made the sign with my left hand. H.H. explained that after WWII it was a “victory” sign and she added that “That was the beginning of peace,” displaying her total ignorance of what peace really is, far more than the opposite of war. In a country where 700,000 women are raped daily, peace does not thrive. It is so annoying and trying to be surrounded by people who assume patriarchy is the only way (even if they simultaneously don’t know what patriarchy is).
On the First Plane
Midwest Airlines seats are big, cushy, and brown. There are metal foot racks that fold in and out, and the trays are big and have a section for a cup or for resting glasses. I think I might want to keep this in mind. Airplanes for fat people. (Actually, I’d like to lose weight, but easier said than done. Fortunately, I’m not too fat for other airlines and hope I never shall be.)
I’ve decided that I prefer puffy clouds to streaking clouds or vague, shapeless mist. Puffy rolling clouds, even puffy clouds with somewhat circular holes, similar to whirlpools. Except I don’t think they were spinning—no, that would be a tornado.
As the plane was coming in to land in Milwaukee (one short stop), I looked down and thought the scene looked like mountains, models rather than the real thing. There were modern and not-so-modern suburban houses, many with swimming pools in the back yard forming b right blue circles, occasionally bright blue ovals. The only thing to suggest that it wasn’t a model was the tiny moving cars on the roads.
When the plane takes off again, it will head for Boston, where I’ll be getting on another plane…to Dublin.
Boston Airport
I had no idea Bostonians talk like gangsters—or should I say “gaingstas.” Actually, their accents remind me of 1940s movie comedies, and various characters from films. Now I’m hearing Irish accents. I could swoon.
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