Friday, July 22, 2011

Cobh

Here's a bit of old writing I did in Ireland, in Cork when I couldn't get my camera working. Hope you like it, but if you don't (or if you do!) totally comment with any advice or criticism you have!

***

I took the train station down the hill from my hostel, and right away things started changing. Right away there were signs of the sea, and a different sort of sea than I was used to. Instead of white sand stranded in the middle of the road or long, pale beach grass swaying by the curb, it looked like the land itself might have once been part of the ocean floor. There were brown sandbars stretched out on either side of the train, all of it reminiscent of a wave. They were made up of eternal ripples, glistening under a sheen of millimeter deep saltwater, etched with thin, deep tide pool streams, curving and rippling this way and that like a brown snake. Or a wave. Even the sea-foam green railings of the bridge we passed over rolled up and down. And then I got to Cobh and it was obvious that the little town, too, was a wave.

The roads, the couple there were, winded gently, and the buildings followed. The houses and pubs and shops traveled in connected, multicolored rows: sky blue, goldenrod, white, salmon, peach, cream, black, brick red, turquoise. They formed the streets, and went up and down, back and forth in little fluttering hills, sometimes even nearly going through each other, like they themselves were made of water.

I went up and down the hill-waves, breathing in the salt and wind and sun and rocks until I got to these dunes that were made out of earth and short grass instead of sand. On one side of the dunes was a make shift door made from tin or some sort of rusty metal, and I thought, here you can live inside the beach.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

The Revenge of Helen Keller

A while ago-- weeks, already, don't ask me how-- my Vermont besties, Meg and Ryan, came to the Cape for a week. And by came, I mean they suddenly appeared in my doorway. You know, homeless and stuff. Except not really because it was all planned by everyone except me. I have NO CLUE how they managed to keep it a secret, but it was funny, Meg was all, "didn't you think it was strange that your parents bought a new air mattress and a bunch of other stuff?" and I was all, "no, my parents are weird!"

Anyhoo, I guess we must be weird, too, because what we ended up doing most of the time (in between going to the drive ins and P-town and clubbing and stuff) was laughing about Helen Keller.


(I'm pretty sure he was pretending to be Helen Keller.)

They liked the fact that Cape Cod has a bunch of braille trails. The kind with ropes to hold on to while you walk, attached to splintery wooden posts that you smack your hands against because you're blind and can't see them.

Like this:
(Conveniently, this trail's winding and there's also lots of roots to trip on!)

But yeah, we laughed at her lots. I mean, with her. I guess she started to get annoyed with it. (Though she had to admit that I hula hooped just like her.)

See? Just. Like. Helen. Keller.

Anyway, the last night they were on Cape, we were figuring out what to do. I didn't get out of work till ten at night and they were leaving at like one in the morning (slight exaggeration), so they didn't want to do anything too intense. SO, we went with the obvious option of going back to Johnny Kelly Park with a ouija board to contact Helen Keller's ghost. Obvious choice.

Since the Cape doesn't believe in street lights of any kind, it was wicked dark and sketchy and we ended up never even taking the ouija board out if the box. We just huddled on a piece of playground equipment like cool kids and giggled. (See?? We are so cool!) We stayed like that for a couple minutes before I mentioned that Helen Keller's ghost doesn't talk, it touches. Which, you know, was a great idea, because then we kept expecting Helen Keller to reach out and touch us and got wicked sketched out and ran away via the slide. Zak Bagans would be so proud. Except not, because we never yelled at her, bro.

(The funny thing is that I was hanging out with another friend a few nights later, and we decided to walk around a graveyard because we were bored, and it was only a little sketchy.)

Anyway, as we were going down the slide, the strap of my purse broke. Right away, I knew is was the ghost of Helen Keller. Touching my purse.

That was pretty anticlimactic. But, you know, Helen Keller hates climaxes.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Nigel Thornberry owns my blog

I haven't posted for over a month. I'm awful.

I've been crazy busy this month working, applying for internships, hanging with my friends, and writing (just not here!) and I have about a million stories I need to share with you. And I will, once I've gotten some sleep. So probably not for a few days, since that's when I can expect to sleep. But, anyway, since I haven't posted in what passes for years on the interwebs (I might be making that fact up) I figured that probably no one had visited. Except actually, when I looked at my stats, about a million people had, and they all got here by googling Nigel Thornberry. Go figure. Go Nigel. He probably owns my soul, now.

Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Probably the worst blogger ever? Yeah.

It's been weird being home again. And it's been really normal, which is also weird. It's like Ireland never happened, except it completely did, and it's wicked strange.

It's been nice being back, though. It's been awesome seeing everyone (well, everyone on Cape.. it's been half a year since I've seen anyone from Burlington, besides the kids in Dublin. Oh, the sadness!) again, and I've been having lots of fun going out to Providence and just chilling.

I have my job back, which is less than fun, but I need the money wicked badly. I graduate next year (damn, I'm old!) so I really really have to start saving, especially since I want to go to Ireland again when I graduate. Oh, and another good thing about working? It gave me this quote: "He was never the same after he tried to throw Wayne in the meat grinder." No, I have no more information than that. It was just a mother talking to her teenage son, but I was too busy with another customer so catch anything else from their conversation. It made my life, though, pretty much, and as soon as I could I scribbled it down on a bit of leftover receipt so I wouldn't forget. I pretty much spent the rest of my shift imagining different scenarios.

Also, how perfect is the fact that his name's Wayne?

Anyway, I blame the fact that this post is just a mini recap of my life on Teen Mom. I've kind of been watching it today. And Ghost Adventures. I'm classy. So is Wayne, I imagine.

(I don't usually watch this much TV, I promise.. But when I do, it's pretty much that level of classy.)

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Clothes Ramblings

Even though I've lived on Cape most of my life, it's only since I got back from Ireland that I've been noticing really specific things about it. Like, the way Cape Codders dress. It seems like everyone has this uniform which almost no one breaks. They have it in Dublin, too, but their uniform is completely, completely different. Basically, on Cape, until it gets warm (which it doesn't really until June) pretty much everyone under forty or so (the old people all dress like normal old people, but, especially the ones who come to the Christmas Tree Shop, really colorfully) dresses in the same outfit: jeans and a hoodie. And the hoodie is always either navy blue, grey, dark green, army green, brown, or, if you're a girl, pink. Then for shoes, it's fake uggs or converse. Maybe flats. Normal sneakers if you're a boy. Once it gets nicer out, people start to break it up a bit, but for most Cape Codders, that's it.

It's totally different in Dublin. There the girls all dress the same, too (and they dress especially the same if they're walking in groups), but in a completely different way. They never wear jeans, ever. They wear either a skirt with leggings, tights, or no pants at all, or they wear a track suit. And the girl wearing the leggings or tights would never wear a track suit; they're completely different people. (The boy version of that is jeans vs. a tracksuit). When it's cold, everyone wears a pea coat, either black or grey. (On Cape, when it's cold, sometimes people wear coats but mostly they keep wearing their hoodies). Oh, and every girl wears heels. Sometimes they wear boots, but even they often have heels. Unless the girl's wearing a tracksuit; then she wears uggs.

That's mostly just Dublin, though. The other parts of Ireland, girls will wear jeans. Cork especially, I think. They mostly dressed casually there, but it was a mix, which was nice. Of course, I was only there for a week.

Anyway, though, I'm not sure which place is more different from the Dublin dress code- if the wicked hoodie-casual Cape Cod way of dressing or B-Town style. Because in Burlington, people wear lots of different sorts of outfits. For most of the year, because of the snow but also because they're cute, girls wear boots. When it rains, they wear bright, bright rainboots (which I've never seen a Dubliner wear) with cute patterns with whales or owls. As for everything else, people will wear whatever- a flannel shirt, a hoodie, a sundress, a T-shirt with a witty saying, a patterned sweater, a big shirt with leggings. The only thing is that whatever it is is almost always colorful. Even in winter, because then half of everyone wears a bright snowboarding coat, and the other half wears a pea coat, and even a lot of the pea coats are bright, too. The only time it's different is the first warm day of the year, when the girls all go out in lacy white sun dresses. Oh, and if the shoes aren't boots, they're pretty much always flats. Ireland's the only place I've been to where heels are the shoes of choice.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

airports suck

It was worth it last night when I didn't go to bed, but now I'm suffering. I have three hours before my plane boards, and then seven hours in the air, and then two hours driving from Boston to the Cape. I think I might die. Especially since the only food I have on me is the chocolate I bought my family (and I already ate way too much of that for breakfast because, um, I've been completely broke for a while) and I just feel like crying, but I think that might be a bad thing, considering where I am. But, really, I just want to start bawling because I don't feel well and I don't wanna go yet and airports suck.

I'm sure everything will be good once I'm actually home, but I hate change sometimes (like now). And I'm really tired. Not that I've been anything but a ball of emotions this week. Really, it's been crazy.

Ahhhhhhhh I wanna cry!

Saturday, May 7, 2011

Dublin

time flies away here.
it darts from your hands
pulled by high-heeled cobblestone roads
murderous taxis
trampled newspaper mush cigarette butts
years of bikes rusting algae in the Liffey
and mute nights where it only rained.

it takes away spinning
midnight pub worlds with their stomping and dancing and hidden corners
in seconds, takes
picnics of wine and tree climbing castle climbing life swirling,
accents that turn talking
into a song,
and the wind that makes you fly into busy anything streets
into leafy iron gated parks sprawling
with all of Ireland on its lunch break except you have all day.

then turns it all into a dream.