Plunging temperatures reminds us all that February, as it limps along, will only lead to March. A month of two minds, killer and grower. I am in my new place now, a gray brick house nestled amount other old homes (all over 100 years old) here in Ceannt Fort. The house is two short stories, drafty, has one bathroom and gas is expensive. Still, I save 200 euros a month by living here and better than that, I am living with a friend who is also a writer. So far, it is better than the joyless Croatian woman who was my roommate at the last place whose fascination for the Big Bang Theory went on for months as she watched the seasons on repeat.
The Big Bang Theory is like the blackface of comedy to me. Masquerading as something it’s definitely not (smart humor) in order to illicit cheap laughs through really, really stupid and decidedly sophomoric jokes. All complete with a loud and oft repeated laugh track since the audience obviously needs all the clues available to them to prompt obedient laughter.
And so week after week, month after month of her watching this show. The echos of the character dilemmas bouncing around the flat and seeping in under the door. It was time. Time for a move. I loved North Dublin and in spite of that, I’ve moved to South Dublin.
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The home I live in now has a decidedly more relaxed feel and energy to it. I would say I’m happy here. I feel in my own skin, so to speak, and I feel much more inclined to write here. The room itself has unusual beams in the ceiling and gives almost a cocoon like feel when I’ve got a few candles going and I’m wrapped in blankets and reading.
I find myself missing the dead in my life a lot recently. Not that I don’t think of them often. But the memories have been visceral lately. Mostly things like seeing a woman approaching me on the street and the way she turns her head, it reminds me of my grandmother. Or a tall, lanky lad sauntering on the sidewalk reminds me of JD who has been gone 4 years now. And I often talk with JD, for he was my confidant for a long time. As I was his. There’s a real void with him gone from the world. And my grandmother who helped me grow part of my heart. Who refused to shape it with shame and rigidity. She taught me all about the love of old things. But my heart still has the trappings of shame and rigidity, and the Irish know something about this. They seem to. They have the jokes and the stories and sometimes, the sadness, that belies this. Maybe I came to a country where people carry something similar. And we’ve agreed not to talk about it, but we see each other in the firelight, at times, and there’s a look that’s passed. Like saying, yes, we know.
This house I live in is filled with old and much cherished things. All things my friend has collected over the years. Each one with a story behind it. Each one sentimental. I remember sitting on the back patio all day in the sun (for it was the summer months I lived with my grandparents up in Graton, California) when I was 12 with my grandmother. Sanding furniture down, staining it, varnishing it. The smell of the old and the new all in one breath out there by the redwoods. I can smell the creek now. Mud and rotting apples and musty weeds. The ranch dogs sprawled on the ground next to me. Those dogs, they watched over me all day. I took it for granted, that kind of dumb animal love.
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I miss N. California today. Why is that? My mind sidewinding itself in between so many memories. What am I doing so far from home? Why did I come? It’s one of those days where I’m in between the sanding off of the old, cracked sheen of some kind of worn out varnish. In between adding coats of that darker stain that fills the cracks, in the end, just fine. Something aged and smoother, something that doesn’t hide the fissures. But I don’t know. It’s easy to have these moods, to think that. In reality, it’s a moment. It’s a continuance.
North-flying mallards overhead. Wild, whirling of wings and the wind’s breath shrinks the world to the bone. Things are returning. It occurs to me, today, that I have learned something from coming this far. Why did it take a lifetime to finally know who it is sitting here in the freezing kitchen all wrapped up in sweaters, channeling the Jimmy Carter of the late 70s? Time does funny dances in the mind. There’s a flow to things that seems more like the backeddies of a long river.
I suppose this is more sentimental than it needed to be. One of those moods, those after work moods. It’s staying light by 10 minutes each day. Time for that walk. There are a lot of places to walk down here in South Dublin. That way, I won’t be tempted to crank on the heat.