Ireland 8

August 6, 2012


Yesterday was my sick day. Did rise up onto the streets from time to time, but spent most of the day sleeping or near sleep, letting the Olympics creep into the windows of my brain. Yet another bartender at Furey’s told a story of going fishing and having a pod of dolphins surround his boat, all frolicsome and merry. The tone of wonder in his voice was beautiful.

Woke from a extended dreams about joining a theater troupe, the other members of which didn’t like me, and I had to spend time and energy winning them over. I quoted difficult lines and spoke in amusing voices.

Some rolling blue and white over Knocknarea. I may venture forth.

As I was writing that, the clouds closed in again. I am not a casual traveler. I’m incapable of having a “vacation” in the usual sense of the word. In every new town I try to build a life. I learn the history. I identify the weeds in the empty lots. I try to find boon companions. I entangle myself in strands of lives that will cause me grief when I have to leave. I do each kindness, each smile, the courtesy of assuming it to be an overture to lifelong friendship. Therefore I’ll sit in the Shannon departure lounge and weep, even if United doesn’t manage to screw up the flights.