i have a tecret to sell
i am rying to tecall
but you thatter my shoughts
and dender me rumb

the words are a lottle list
the letters playing side and heek
fack and borth in my brain
i become chizzy from the dace

the formse attempts phramation
but my scrind is mambled
with unassembled buzzle pits
the persure for perfection

my jumbling is mumbled
missy and mexed up
yet what i’m taying is srue
my sear sear dir ______,

i yove lou

ridiculous quotes captured:

“there are too many fences in this world.”
-b

“acorns. think about it.”
-ree

“i love it when mankind tries to build a sidewalk and the trees say, ‘no!’”
-t

dirty old town…

this is the story of the four-hundred dollar weekend in dublin. it began weeks in advance when a hasty invitation and acceptance occured between tim and i, before we even knew each other, really; the epitome of spur of the moment. well, perhaps it was more pre-meditated on his part, but i was going off a whim essentially. so the flights were booked and i was stuck; but i was excited about it. i tried to convince him we should just sleep on the streets but he wasn’t going for it. so a hostel was booked; whatever, i shrugged. i was looking forward to an adventure.

plane; arrival; hostel.

friday: we hopped a wild, irish tour with an even wilder tour guide, saw bits of dublin and surrounding countryside—beauty—sheep and mountains, and then off to glendalough after a ridiculously expensive but satisfying lunch. we had about an extra half hour to work it off when the bus broke down near one of the guinness lakes. we also saw the houses of bono, daniel day lewis, and enya, (who “only makes an album every ten years because every time she starts singing she falls asleep.”) glendalough was lush, green, fresh, burnt orange, forest and foliage reflected in lucid lakes stippled with ducks, continuously fed by mountainous waterfalls over mossy rocks and vined trees, encircling the monks’ tower of defense and the little church of stone, crumbling, yet standing, strong still. it begins to rain, softly, misting, gently caressing and refreshing faces, glossing smiles, glowing and content, in kind contemplation, wondering at the world. it ends with a sleepy, lullabied journey back into the city. that night we watch juno: golden brilliance of the highest quality, and polish our evening off with a bit of piping.

saturday: the morning consisted of fickle showers and an extended breakfast, followed by six thousand and three footsteps o’er the city sidewalks, soaking wet, splashing through puddles in saint steven’s green, not much else to see. (pretty ponies prancing in the puddles…) we eventually wandered into a wee coffee shop, after tim horton’s failed us, where i downed a love-topped late and devoured the warmest, richest chocolate muffin. two games of pass the pigs was played. i won the first by one; tim won the second by a landslide comeback. then off we traipsed to the lighthouse, where we were warmly welcomed by marion, jane, jimmy, richard, mave… clothes downstairs; food upstairs; grateful homeless; sandwiches evaporate; rambunctious praise; dirty dishes; greasy floor; eyes smiling; hot tea; bagged leftovers; fond farewells; pie; orange feet; crocheted roses.

sunday: awoke on the tiny mattress to a hushed and anticipatory church. we laughed in a lulling fashion, getting ready for the day. people arrived; a lady named anne made us tea. souls trickled in: singles, pairs, families, all friendly and welcoming… betty; george; mark; ruba; pat and loretta mullen: the pastor and his wife who had freely given us the keys, the upstairs, access to anything, immediately claimed us for lunch. the church service was beautiful, a warm eclectic mish-mash of ethnicities and backgrounds, laid-back, genuine; heartfelt music, powerful preaching; pat spoke of jesus riding into the city on palm sunday and the implications of people’s expectations. one of the singers was an older man, blind eyes with bushy eyebrows, the words from every song memorised, ringing out in richness up to the rafters; glory be to God. we had a most delectable lunch: chicken, potatoes, veggies, followed by pumpkin cheesecake and coffee, mmm, black and bold. pat and loretta are two solid, solid christ-followers, normal human beings with a servant’s heart. there was an exciting connection sparked when pat began to speak of a conference he had attended concerning café culture, a movement where cafes and churches unite to create atmospheric evenings of coffee and cakes, painting and poetry, comedy and music, etc., an open place where people of any amount of faith can feel comfortable and unafraid, where barriers break down, relationships develop and grow, a conversation is initiated; a place where musicians can debut, experiment, connect with the audience who can relate to the same sort of struggles, perhaps finding ultimate salvation through a loving saviour; a place where art and music collide, a poetical culmination of the beauty God has given us to share through gifts and talents and love… the fellowship and conversation flowed as smooth as the coffee. afterwards, richard met us at the lighthouse and we walked down to the stadium, listening to him tell his story. there we joined in ‘arise dublin,’ a large rally of sorts, where we saw a lot of the same people we had met the day before. there were good things said, and it was encouraging in many ways, but not quite as meaningful as meeting real people in a dimly lit building that’s falling apart, yet continues to fill people’s stomachs and souls. we thanked richard and said our goodbyes; he pointed us in the right direction, and tim got us the rest of the way; tim always knew the way.

monday! gosh, every day held something incredibly different but incredibly wonderful. neither was better than either, but my goodness monday was beautiful, just glorious! the sun indulged us with some warm rays as we walked and walked and walked, in a surreal daze almost, along the craggy rocks which dance beneath the icy ocean that supplies the locals with a life of longevity, along the sunny streets where we were told to back away from the gate of bono, along the breathtaking cliffs of killiney beach where we stopped to have a lovely picnic of nutella sandwiches, and down to the shore itself, where we laughed with the waves and attempted to skip stones… sunset; rusted bike; damien rice; pipes; white tic-tacs; train.

tuesday we flew back just in time to do our presentation on as you like it.

the end.

(oh, and did i forget to mention that it was saint patrick’s day weekend?)

thoughts bent
crooked and wild
refusing to be hammered
straightened out
weaving and turning
spun ribbons of steel
knotted and tangled
wound tight
round the wheel
of circular thinking
an endless merry-go-round
with horses gone mad
a nonsensical circus
in despair I let go
releasing the reins
a mighty hand reaches down
down
into the chaotic hemisphere of my brain
gently pries apart the rusted metal
lovingly thrusts it into a furnace of flames
melting sparks
growing heat
rips through each particle
embers burn and pulsate
as these twisted tracks
are baptised in fire
and smoulder in a holy pain
the great hammer descends
with mighty mercy
each strike sends a shiver through the steel
a groaning
as it is shaped and reshaped
a perpetual process
back and forth
from the flames
to the fountain
pounded
pounded
again
and again
a divine thunderous rhythm
beating
building
echoing
until the Maker
has wrought the metal
pure and parallel
that my train of thought
may steer straight through

continued streams from lisboa:

…one of the few spots i have found solace in this bustling city of lisboa is on the rocks that encircle the bay, yet also seats the odd couple lost in their lip-locked love. i ignore them. a boy skips stones. a tattered book is being mulled over by a homeless man who downs a bottle of spirits with his other hand. the sun flits and floats, travelling from one mass of clouds to the next, playing hide-and-go-seek with the sea-gulls, taunting me as i struggle to retain a constant and comfortable temperature, laughing as i alternate taking off my sweater with putting it back on again. on. off. on. off. i have no idea what time it is, but it is warm… it is unnerving when the boy in mid-make-out opens an eye and locks it with mine. i laugh when a surging wave sends them soaking on their way. thank you, ocean.

…when surrounded by incomprehensible portuguese, except for the odd ‘obrigada,’ i end up mostly talking to myself, conversations confined within the soundproof skeleton of my head. sometimes it is soothing to be silent, though, to melt unnoticeably into the general throng of comers and goers, free to explore at will, up or left without consultation, getting lost and unlost on a whim…

…the poet’s hostel is perfect, tucked away in the heart of the city, offering a temporary home for nomads drifting through. the fellow travellers i’ve met whose journeys have synched up with my own are all incredibly and beautifully unique people, easy-going adventurers: a couple canadians, leanda who cooked me a delicious supper, people from italy, germany, austria, australia. and a couple of the french who drink their coffee out of a bowl… the breakfasts are delightful, however, after being warmly awakened by the sunshine and singing filtering in from the streets, being able to enjoy my tea and toast for as long as i like, unhindered by classes and train schedules, surrounded by paintings and mosaics; i am content…

…the days sort of organized themselves nicely for me, into continuously unfolding adventures involving a castle, manwell the italian photographer, a haircut, free hugs, the ancient city sintra, the coast of caiscais with the americans kim, becky and devon, going to see an Italian storyteller and going out to dinner with people of every nationality and becoming caught in the friendly cross-fire of cultures, seeing jesus christ superstar performed in portuguese and becoming the honourary granddaughter of a kind old man named mario who bought me coffee and linked my arm as he walked me home, riding in the number twenty-eight tram, reading in the sun till i was burnt bright red, nearly as red as the massive cloud of communists that swarmed the square…

though i truly loved my time in lisbon, charlbury became the proverbial carrot before my weary face, so cruelly close and yet so far as i made my way back through london and onwards; it beckoned me ‘home,’ and i have never been so glad to get off that train and plod up the hill to finally collapse into my bed.

excerpts from a journaling nomad passing the time in the airport:

…………………………..friday february twenty-third, two thousand and eight

he lifts high the black bag of coffee beans and i inhale greedily, hoping the sweet incense will placate my caffeine addiction for the moment, willing my eyes afire to stay open, as i sit in a completely unfamiliar airport, surrounded by completely unfamiliar people. one restricting shoe dangles precariously off my toes and i hope it doesn’t smell; the redness pulsates. the foot on the left has gotten ahead of the rest of me and fallen fast asleep. i attempt to read, but the pages are so potent, so packed, that my energy quickly wans, my eyes droop, and half the paragraph is missed; tis a predicament, for my soul is clammering for such poetic inspiration, but my brain isn’t awake enough to absorb it fully; the potential for powerful profundity is lost in my foggy state. my left foot awakens abruptly, painfully, all prickling pins and needles. the man ahead of me cracks his neck and i shiver in horror. a table of staff snacks cruelly tempts me as i stare dully at the crumby remains of my roast chicken sandwich, whole wheat. my camera’s battery is dead already and i haven’t even gotten on the plane. i am neither worried nor nervous to go to lisbon on my own. merely anxious. anxious to arrive… anticipating the unknown, the unexpected…


…knee deep? in over my head? truly, though, i think the majority of the time i am caught up consumed with rather shallow thoughts, as it were, a fascination with the slick rainbow oil that swirls surreptitiously on the surface of a puddle, as opposed to the dazzling microcosm of life, the miniature cities that may lurk beneath. i think far too often i skim over these subterranean secrets when i become distracted instead with the delicate kinetic painting sparkling on the surface… or i don’t know, maybe it’s the opposite… regardless, i get distracted easily…


…sometimes i will sit and sigh or sing scenarios in my sleep to the soundtrack of sigur ros…


…i pause mid-sip as i recall les mis. les mis! my masimmo late has been reduced to nothing but a foaming caramel puddle in the concave depths of a ceramic mug large enough for two handles, masking entirely my face so fatigued… the daughter of coffee, which is now drained; so too am i, but last night’s show was brilliant. regarded from the uppermost balcony, it seemed almost too perfect, too flawless, with its pre-arranged forms, pre-planned movement, notes of anticipated highs and lows, perpetually practiced dramatics. but they drew me in with the chilling power and beauty of their voices: trembling, groaning, soaring, whispering, to paint one of the most stunning stories of human struggle and courage. the stage floor held a large rotating disk almost continuously in motion; time spun on with actors weaving, turning; props sliding, rising; the orchestra resonated from the great bowels beneath. the pivotal scene of the candlesticks unfolded gleaming with God’s mercy and grace: the humble granting of a man’s freedom, a simple act that would affect countless links in the chain; eponine’s pain of unrequited love shown so bravely unselfishly, nearly unnoticed by the loves-truck Marius, the noble jean val jean, his strong, fatherly dedication, a man redeemed to rescue others, a story of love and loss and sacrifice; and the boy! sly and street-saavy, his life short-lived to a sad end, never knowing anything more than the filthy alleyways. perhaps he dies there fittingly then, a tragic testament to the horrific loss of innocent life. my heart wept. too cruel, i said. ahh and when eponine dies content that she is in marius’ arms, after she had delivered his note to cosette for him, i became overwhelmed with an incredulous pathos, allowing every sinew of sorrow to seep straight through my soul, sharing in the sweet and senseless passions, to partake in her pain, my ribs constricting the pulsating of my most emotive organ. breath in, in, sigh shuddering out. a part of me resents cosette for her beautiful ignorance; her ignorant beauty. it never seems as though she fully grasps the sacrifices that have been made for her. nevertheless, i was entirely swept up by it all; sad when the applause broke the spell.


nonsensical stream of consciousness:

…with my words i shall assail your imagination with a probing to paint, to create the most unfathomable, impossibly attainable beauty of art, perpetually perfecting, imperfecting, barely beyond your grasp, never neither constant nor content with the current status of slant and style, yet your mind’s eye will find its satisfaction in the simple act of careful construction, of reckless ruin. never will it remain the same in the next moment as in the former; under constant mutation, progression, erasing, fresh, full: raw canvas. with the same words your own individual vision, your creative magic will stand incomparable to the lady next to you on the bus, the man on his bicycle, the child flung into the air. each has the freedom to become encompassed in their own inimitable enchantment:

begin with the biggest blur of blue you can believe. hurl it into the heavens with all your strength, say a prayer, and watch it soar, stop suspended for a second, then sink, dissipating, evaporating, escaping any spectrum of colour. circular shots of satin purple follow, filling the sky, vibrato, pulsating strobe light, inward out and back again, from violet to rose, sky to tree, skipping leaves. a gaggle of green bees swarms buzzing by, each trailing a ribbon of red, yellow and orange, lighting the forget-me-nots on fire. a curtain of pale yellow washes down dripping, dawdling deliberately, a coat to conceal the chaos; fails in opacity. a second roaring layer thunders in like the tide, the glowing fireball melts, gliding over the ocean’s bottom, revealing red, rectangular rocks and teal sand glistening. two lovers are scuba-diving for sunken treasure. their figures spin and dance through flocks of fish clothed in scales of rose petals, their fins lit with thorns, their figures contorted by the water’s inconsistency. coral shivers in a cold, grape gelatine. bubbles pirouette in flawless ballet. a boat casts a shadow cross the deep. the lovers are drowning; their air-supply depleting; their faces turn a sickly shade of orange. the grateful shark bites and salty sea seeps blood, red, thick, darkening to black. gold Russian coins drop down from the surface. invert; reverse; flip it upside down. gold Russian coins are sprouting into flowers in a billowing field of indigo blue moss. a little girl and boy prance barefoot cross the subtle softness, snapping the stems and chipping the flowers into their large, wooden treasure chest.


…when i happen to be sitting on a stationary train and another hurtles ferociously past the vast windows, i frantically cover my face with a fan of fingers, for the metaphysical phenomenon, the illusion of movement, when in fact we’re frozen still, makes me dizzy, dazed, disoriented, sick.



airport sensory overload:

the sputtering hum of generators; the obnoxiously loud laughter of middle-aged women; low, deep-throated mumbles; buttons beeping; the rattle of carts; the pestering squeak of rolling suitcases; the flickering ticking of a light; a distant child wailing; quick, calculated clips of heels clopping cross the floor; security alarm activated; continuous unknown bleeping bombarding my sleep-deprived brain; i attempt to distinguish one language from another and fail at my own game.

artificial air tinged with astringent, coffee, and fast food.

bright yellows offset by royal blues against a backdrop of beige. the screen reads 14:11. one lone rectangular, green sign indicates the direction of the emergency exit. handsome irish boys stroll by. float by.

cold, uncomfortable chairs. head resting heavily upon my palm.

remains of mango linger. i search and find some leftover coffee as well. i should brush my teeth.

conclusion: boredom.

………………………………………………………..march 10 2008


a slightly paraphrased conversation on the tele with me mither:


hullo?

hey mom, it’s beth. i won’t be long; i just had a question.

we’re on our way home, what’s your question?

did dad add me to msn?

(aside) Daniel, did you add bethany to msn? (aloud) …yes, apparently.

(laughter) ok, that’s all i wanted to know.

ok, are you alright?

(laughter) oh i’m wonderful!

wonderful? why? are you in love?

(much laughter) no..

good marks?

(more laughter) umm, no...

why then?

um, church?

why? did you speak in tongues?

(loud laughter) no! ok mom, i’ll let you go, love you.

love you too.