This morning, I woke up just as it got not dark anymore, and then there was this mist that hung like gauze out the window and I couldn’t see anything, not even the hawthorn tree in the green pasture with the white and black lambs. So I packed up my backpack and got going. I was leaving the island and there was a boat, so I got it and we did ride some waves. I met an older lady on the boat named Irene and she said I could ride in the taxi she hired so I could get to Clifden, so I could get the bus so I could get to Galway and then get the train. Ricky was the cab driver and he lived by Ireland’s only fjord.
So, I did all that and the bus was grand except it was really full but I fell asleep and when I woke we were in Galway and the mist had lifted and it was just grey, you know? Like really grey, like a stone at the bottom of a river or in an Irish wall. Like you see everywhere around here.
But we got in too late for me to get the fast train, so I got the slow train two hours later and I was in the one car with screaming children and for about three hours and I got to meditate on how I made a decision not to have children and I’m still, like, really thankful I followed through on that. Not that I don’t think they aren’t life miracles, miracle whip kids, and all that. But the screaming. Piercing. Climbing over people they don’t even know. One held up a drawing for me to admire but it was a lot like my writing in the morning. Many different colored lines crashing into each other not really going anywhere and then you show it around, much like this discordant post here, and then hope that you still have friends at the end of it.
So that was the train ride. And I got home and my roommate was there and she lit a fire and left. So the stove is going. Soon I’m leaving too. And then no one will be here to enjoy the little fire in our stove.