Irish Eyes Are Smiling

BIONN SIULACH SCEALACH (Gaelic proverb) ... "The traveler has tales to tell."

"The magician's underwear has just been found in a cardboard suitcase floating in a stagnant pond on the outskirts of Miami. However significant that discovery may be - and there is the possibility that it could alter the destiny of each and every one of us - it is not the incident with which to begin this report." Ah, if only my tale were full of such intrigue and import. The previous passage opened an engaging, whacked, and thought provoking novel I read last week. A free pint of Guinness to the first literary scholar able to name the title and author. To aid in your quest for the obsidian nectar I'll provide another snippet: "Jesus was sitting on a rock in the desert, meditating and reading the Law, when Tarzan came riding up on a goat." That's Nobel quality my friends.

NI HI AILLEACHT A CHUIREANN AN CORLAN AG ... "Beauty does not boil the pot."

We are a species mad with beauty. In the rolling patois of nonsensical Seussian semantics: We rate it, slate it, slight it ... exalt it, exult it, excite it. Refined and defiled, defined and reviled. Sought and found, bought and bound. Beauty - to damn and despise or praise and prize? To emulate it, Michelangelo advised the 'purgation of superfluities.' To immolate it, Shakespeare noted that 'Beauty is a witch.' My thoughts on the subject? I believe that beauty is a good thing. Yeah, with that kind of deeply insightful analysis one could found a branch or school of aesthetics. So beauty does not boil the pot. Who cares, as long as it makes the blood percolate and the heart judder and syncopate. The hushed beauty of Ireland is subtle and elusive ... lush of body but shyly clad in mist. France seduces, but Eire enchants. Switzerland overwhelms, Ireland pacifies. The lands of Iberia dance the flamenco, the isle of Hibernia prefers a jig. Italy draws painters, Ireland spawns poetry. Sweden smiles in seraphic ice, Ireland giggles with cherubic glee. Blah, blah, blah.

IS GLAS IAD NA CNOIC I BEAD VAINN ... "Far away hills are green."

The hills far away to the mossy quay; the brilliant glens swathed in jade, the quiet fens a verdant shade; a single brush in varied style, painted plush - the Emerald Isle. A fitting sobriquet as Ireland sparkles in green. Too bold for the palette of Monet, we're talking green green. Freaky leprechaun, shamrock, crayola archetype green. Cucumbers aspire to this chromatic perfection, lettuce can only dream. Anthropomorphic vegetables aside, the country is quite beautiful. I fancy the cities (Dublin, Galway, Kilkenny, Tipperary, Limmerick, and Killarney) but favor the scenery. The weather has been a forecast out of the Old Testament: a sunny glimpse of paradise and then buckets of rain. Are you familiar with the song Flood by Jars of Clay? That, and a popular Gene Kelly show tune were my musical mantras. Perhaps I'm exaggerating slightly. It actually only rained twice. The first time for a week and the second a fortnight :-)

AN RUD A LIONAS AN TSUIL LIONANN SE AN CROI ... "What fills the eye fills the heart."

Do you recall those MAGIC-EYE pictures? They are the ones that resemble pointillism on acid; Seurat meets Dali. Anyways, at first they look like a bunch of colored dots. If you blur your eyes and stare at the picture for awhile, the image suddenly materializes appearing three-dimensional. Sometimes it works for me, sometimes it doesn't. It's a bizarre analogy but traveling to various places is often a lot like looking at those MAGIC-EYE pictures. Discovering the qualities that make a country or culture unique may be immediate or it might take some searching. The same holds true for people. What may appear bland at first glance often masks endearing traits. It took some time until I was able to see beyond the image of Ireland as being merely a subdued version of England. It was a worthwhile wait. Fewer people but greater warmth. Less efficient but less hurried and harried. A place to absorb rather than sights to see.

NI DHEAN AN SAOL CAPALL RAIS D'ASAL ... "The world can't make a racehorse out of a donkey."

The world can, however, make a saint out of a reclusive kook. In the sixth century a hermit named Kevin lived in the valley of Glendalough beneath the picturesque Wicklow mountains of southeastern Ireland. St Augustine spoke with birds, St. Kevin talked with trees and animals. Blessed with Doolittlean faculties if not social skills, his early years were enjoyed in quiet contemplation. Eventually, the world revolved and spun away his treasured solitude. Pilgrims flocked to visit this odd, quiet, peaceful man. Was he enlightened or just plain loopy? Must there be a difference? The locals, in their intuitive wisdom, understood that the realm of consciousness defies rectilinear measurement. A simple scale ranging from crazy - weird - normal - bright - genius wouldn't do. Bell curves be damned; awareness is more an elliptical phenomenon. The nuts rubbing elbows with the Einsteins. The Nietzsches and Van Goghs often switching teams. The Greeks understood this ... 'mantike' or 'manike' ... prophet or madman? Little difference. Back to the story, Kevin was uniquely awake (or at least good for a laugh) so the pilgrims decided to stay. They built a monastery and his teachings swept the countryside. Every rose must have its thorn, however, and the village of Glendalough was no exception. For ages the idyllic lakeside town had been besieged by a wicked water monster that periodically gobbled up its children. St. George was busy slaying dragons over in Wales, so it was up to our protagonist - St. Kevin. More poet than warrior, he swam out to the sea serpent, had a little chat, and an armistice was reached. Hero or wuss? History has been remiss in regaling his exploits. The dude stared down a vicious monster of the depths; St. Patrick only scared away a couple snakes.

IS MINIC A RINNE BROMACH GIOBLACH CAPALL CUMASACH ... "A raggy colt often made a handsome horse."

For those interested in appellative etymology (read: geeks), the following will not only inform but undoubtedly excite and titillate. Kevin, an Irish name, is an anglicized (read: bastardized) version of the Gaelic CAOIMHIN. It means 'handsome by birth.' Oh, you better believe it. I was Gerber-baby cute. What happened? The flip-side of the adage: a handsome colt sometimes becomes a raggy steed.

IS MINIC A BBI FEAR MAITH I SEANBBRISTE ... "Good men can often be found in worn britches."

Cloaked like a vagabond in my ragged clothes, the above statement sings hope into my ragged face.

IS MAITH AN SCATHAN SUIL CHARAD ... "A friend's eye is a good mirror."

The Irish are talkers. Perhaps it stems from smooching their magical Blarney Stone which reputedly grants the gift of gab. I have a sneaky suspicion that my father is Gaelic rather than Gallic. Anyways, a frequent introduction I often encounter is: "Excuse me, but do you know who you look like?" This has occurred at least ten times. What an unusual national pastime. So, gentle reader, who do people think YOU resemble? The Irish opinion held that I bore a likeness to Clinton. "George Clinton, the grandmaster of funk?" I'd ask excitedly. Nope, more like Billy boy. Sigh. While hoping to be compared with Willy Wonka, I was invariably disappointed. My favorite observation was that I reminded someone of Buzz Lightyear. Cool ... he's not even a real human.

AR SCATH A CHEILE A MHAIREAS NA DAOINE ... "People live in one another's shadow."

Quick observation: the Vikings rock. Even outside the NFL, we live in the penumbric shadow of their once mighty brilliance. Take the world capital - New York. The Norsemen once brutalized central Britain establishing the city of Jorvik ... or York, hence ... . Take the Irish capital - Dublin. A port city the Vikings founded over a thousand years ago, they sailed up the River Liffey and dubbed it the Dark Pool, or Dubh Linn. Useless knowledge. But as Bertrand Russell noted: "There is a pleasure to be gained from useless knowledge."

BIONN BLAS AR AN MBEAGAN ... "Though little, it is tasty."

I would be negligent if I failed to include a word about the country's legendary elixir - GUINNESS. The word would be - YUM. Most adjectives in my repertoire are to mild to convey its savory perfection. If Guinness were a woman, I would praise her as the mistress of my marrow, a religion-unto-herself. The syntax of her curves purr in sensual viscosity. A frothy blonde head with a dark exotic complexion. My nordic-nubian goddess. Again, YUM.

BIONN DHA INSTINT AR SCEAL AGUS DHA LEAGAN DEAG AR AMHRAN ... "There are two sides to every story and twelve versions of a song."

For those counting, there are also three faces of Eve and fifty ways to leave your lover. Relatedly, what I might view as a scrubby hill in Jerusalem others revere as the Temple Mount. Some honor it as the Haram al-Sharif. Different lyrics in various tempo ... so beats the song of salvation. A fevered crescendo in the Middle East, a discordant hum in Ireland. Religion pervades, beautifies, and divides this little island. The schism - known as the 'Irish Troubles' - actually involves a confluence of religious, economic, and political factors. A complex situation unworthy of blithe banter or obtuse simplification. Let's leave it at that.

NI HEDLAS GO HAONTIOS ... "If you want to know me come and live with me."

On a lighter note ... I'm living in a convent. Okay, a convent turned hostel in central Dublin. Hamlet/Ophelia/nunnery jokes aside, the place is spacious and charming. To amuse myself, I am currently traveling incognito and using an alias. I signed in as 'Junker Jorg' and encourage others to call me 'JJ.' For those with better things to do than read about the Reformation and European History ... Junker Jorg was the name Martin Luther used when he briefly went into hiding to escape the Church. Of course the delicious but obscure irony is lost on my fellow backpackers.

IS CUMA LE FEAR NA MBROG CA GCUIREANN SE A CHOS ... "The man with boots does not have to worry where he puts his feet."

Good for him. The man in sandals must be more selective. It frosted the other night. I'm outta here ...

IS FADA AN BOTHAR NACH MBIONN CASADH ANN ... "It is a long road that has no turning."

FACING WEST FROM IRELAND'S SHORES

Facing west from Ireland's shores,
Inquiring, tireless, seeking what is yet unfound
I, a child, very old, over waves, toward the house of
maternity, the land of migrations, look afar,
Look off the shores of my western sea, the circle almost circled;
For starting westward from Hindustan, from the vales of Kashmere,
From Asia, from the north, from the God, the sage, and the hero,
From the south, from the flowery peninsulas and the spice islands,
Long having wander'd since, round the earth having wander'd,
Now I face home again, very pleas'd and joyous,
(But where is what I started for so long ago?
And why is it yet unfound?)

- Walt Whitman

Since I took the liberty to edit the above poem once (using IRELAND in place of CALIFORNIA), I think I'd like to do it again. Oh, don't think I'm slammin papa Walt. Far from it. Still ... the last two lines don't sing true. In their place I'd like to add the following lyrics from the song REGULATE: "G-funk - where rhythm is life and life is rhythm ... time to switch back into freak mode." Yeah. That's better.

IS MAITH AN SCEALAI AN AIMSIR ... "Time is a great storyteller."

Late at the convent the other night I watched the movie Casablanca. Perhaps the greatest film ever made. Rick to Ilsa: "It's still a story without an ending." A simple truth. What script are you busy writing for your life? For myself, I need to conclude this chapter quite soon and begin afresh. I will sketch the scenery and outline the plot within a week. Until then, wherever the road may lead ... GO N'EIRI AN BOTHAR LEAT ... "May the road rise with you."

- Caoimhin Maiu

P.S. One last Irish proverb:

AN RUD IS ANNAMB IS IONTACH ... "What is strange is wonderful." Amen.