Echo (...echo) (...echo)

There's a legend about the echo, about a nymph named Echo who was sentenced by Hera, Zeus' wife, to only be able to echo the last words of others. I think the legend doesn't do the echo justice, though. Because often I'm captivated by the morphing sounds of my own echo, not others' echoes (which has implications of egoism, but it's not all about me). 

It's the space and the sound waves that create an echo. As a sound is made, the sound waves bounce off hard surfaces and are reflected back to the person. I find it interesting that the sound waves bounce off in different directions, depending on the shape of the surface. It's like physics for music majors: there's always something to hear differently the second time around. 

(Please ignore all of the technical language, unless you're interested. It's honestly just an echo of the concept.)

I relate it to the way that we hear our voices and how they sound in the world: completely different, often eliciting cringes or shock when we hear recordings of ourselves. The sound of the voice vibrating in the skull changes the perception and sound of voice. As you speak, the voice resonates (or builds up sound and might) in your skull, mouth, and throat. However, this resonance isn't heard by others, since they only hear what is carried on the air dispelled. It gives such a comic backstory to saying that someone's a windbag, because that's honestly all that to talking to others is in physics. We exchange wind and sound, which becomes communication, language, music, rhythm, and many more things. 

In some ways, our voice is only an echo of our internal thoughts. And our internal/resonant voice is only an echo heard by others. Which means that we truly are living echoes of ourselves, in the present and past. Some of the best books I've read become an "echo of the nation," or even involve wind. 

Joyce quotes a little of George Byron's "On The Death Of A Young Lady," referencing the Zephyr, who is the Greek god of the wind. I find it interesting that we revel in wind so much, and the character is deciding whether his wind is worth using to write poetry: 

"Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
  Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb,
  And scatter flowers on the dust I love." 

These Dirty Details

There's something gorgeously mundane about the days spent in Dungarvan, often when I have classes. These are the days I don't plan any adventures, and yet they still find me. Like, for example, walking across a new section of town, catching a glimpse of a seal sliding smoothly from the water onto the Colligan surfboard, or trying a new café or food. 

The little details of these days, inevitably lost to memory and time, are what astound me most. They keep me hoping for a spark of adventure and joy in the next day. And most of the time, they bring me out of insular thoughts into the day to recognize the shadows of the passing globular earth. 

I've been thinking about how many cafés I've seen since being in Ireland, and specifically in Dungarvan.  They are so much a part of the culture here: café culture, I'd like to call it. It's an essential part of everyone's day, and I can imagine that there's a warming peace from a pot of tea surrounded by buzzing morning breakfasters or town meet-ups, from an outside view. Some of these café details will stick with me most, I think, after this trip since it's such a contrast from American hustle culture with 4am gym lift sessions and morning drive-thru queues. (As a side note: I just learned that the everyone but the Americans call Curbside pickup "Kurbside," and I'm obsessed). 

Upon a Google search, there are approximately 34 cafés (places to sit and drink coffee, tea, and maybe get a scone) in this small town. That's a lot, considering the limited options for cafés in Erie, and the higher amounts of ever-present coffee chains in America. It got me wondering how these businesses exist in such a high volume, unless there is a demand for it. And the culture to sit, relax, and settle into the day together helps to foster this business. Walkability also plays a lot into the accessibility and prevalence of cafés, most of them nestled next to each other in the square. 

Now that I understand this culture more, I can see how Joyce relays and remembers so much of Dublin, that even when he was away, he drew the details to astonishing likeness and accuracy. His details in both Ulysses and Dubliners capture the essence of the place with a shrewd and keen eye. I was most struck today while reading "Counterparts," especially when characters from his other novels and places like Davy Byrne's pub show up. These places are living, still today, and do so in a different way in the novel. "Counterparts" especially handles the troubling results of culture in an unbiased way. It's as though the narrator presents the facts and lets the audience make of it what they will, which makes this piece my favorite of the set we read for class. His lines get more advanced in his later books, but even in his early writing, it's clear that short and long-form stories are among his strengths. 

Knowing that Joyce couched for money from his richer friends while living abroad in Paris, I can't help but relate some of his more personal adventures to these stories too, even if he hadn't yet gone abroad. His personality and charismatic ego absolutely stands out in his writing. Thinking of Joyce as an expat incites me to wonder if I will ever truly know the place I've lived for most of my life, Erie. 

Here's one of my favorite lines from the night: 

"He paused. He felt the rhythm of the verse about him in the room. How melancholy it was! Could he, too, write like that, express the melancholy of his soul in verse?"

 ("A Little Cloud", Dubliners, p. 69)

His writing is painfully beautiful and visionary, but not for its own sake. Instead, it questions the characters, where they are asked by the landscape and detail to stretch off of the pages and jump to life. Just like Dublin comes alive in his description: "Dear dirty Dublin."

Portrait of Nora Barnacle and James Joyce, by John Nolan

Oh Mr. Whiskey, Wherever You Are

 Oh Mr. Whiskey, wherever you are, 

 I'm all alone and the time is up,

 Oh Mr. Whiskey, you already know

 That I'm all yours, what you waiting for?

I like to know song lyrics by heart. With familiar tunes, the lyrics come easily, so I don't have to look them up. There are always a few songs that get stuck in my head, over and over again. This happens especially after nights going out, the fragmented lines tumble through my mind, even if I don't know the whole song. 

One of the lyrics that hilariously surprised me was what I thought was called "Mr. Whiskey." I'd never bothered to look up the song name or artist and when I started singing it with the group, they burst out laughing. When I found out the song was "Promiscuous Girl," and not about whiskey or whiskers, the whole dance floor changed. Instead of the alcohol addiction described above, the Nelly Furtado's lyrics follow:

"Promiscuous girl, wherever you are

I'm all alone and it's you that I want
Promiscuous boy, you already know
That I'm all yours, what you waiting for?
Promiscuous girl, you're teasing me
You know what I want, and I got what you need
Promiscuous boy, let's get to the point
'Cause we're on a roll, you ready?" 

I like to think the rumbling bass and strobe lights contributed to my misunderstanding, but I find that both versions fit in their contexts. While at the Middleton Distillery on the Jameson tour, this song ran through my head again, in the perfect way. The whiskey making process exposed me to the science of the process and helped me to understand how Guinness and whiskey can be national symbols of economy and pride. I most enjoyed the whiskey tasting, even though some of them were very strong. The pretzels were my favorite. 

I got to chat with our tour guide for the day while we traveled between stops, where she told me about her love of spirits and gin. It was insightful to know that she also didn't particularly enjoy whiskey either, but that she was interested in the history of the place and legacy. It was so nice to make a personal connection during the tour because it gave me a little bit more insight into individual opinions about Ireland's history and present. 

Music and songs change an experience, that's for sure. Every ship has a sea shanty, every nation an anthem, business a jingle, and distillery a chant. I think this tour helped me to see how even now, Ireland is utilizing the power of current technology to enhance the experience and processes of their businesses. The high-tech video and speakers, from both the Guinness and Jameson experiences, are proof of that. 

Just like each process can change, writers change too. Since Joyce's early short stories, and since having immersed myself in Ulysses for my senior project, I'm noticing such a switch in his writing. The complex metaphors are still there, and the narrative voice seems somehow younger, even in "The Dead." I'm looking forward to see how his narrative voice changes in Finnegan's Wake after the project. He's the type of writer that keeps you on your toes and expects as much work from you as he puts into the text, which is something I appreciate (and am frustrated by at the same time). 

I believe that his anthem would come from his book of poems Chamber Music, Poem 33: 

"Now, O now, in this brown land

    Where Love did so sweet music make
We two shall wander, hand in hand,
    Forbearing for old friendship’ sake,
Nor grieve because our love was gay
Which now is ended in this way.

A rogue in red and yellow dress
    Is knocking, knocking at the tree;
And all around our loneliness
    The wind is whistling merrily.
The leaves—they do not sigh at all
When the year takes them in the fall.

Now, O now, we hear no more
    The vilanelle and roundelay!
Yet will we kiss, sweetheart, before
    We take sad leave at close of day.
Grieve not, sweetheart, for anything—
The year, the year is gathering."

Its both romantic like Yeats, but if speaking about Ireland, becomes much more tragic. Let's hope I'm not mishearing this one, though 😉.

Side Quest Saturdays

It's the little stops and side quests that bring about the greatest sense of adventure for me. During the West trip, our bus stopped at Inch Beach and the Ladies' View, which were both my favorite stops of the day. Even the stop at the ancient burial site in Connacht, with the rocky landscape, was a highlight. I love the little adventures that have taken me off the beaten path and into the wonders of place. 

Since having returned to Dungarvan, I've tried to add these piecemeal adventures into everyday life, like when I went along to Cork even though I didn't get a tattoo. Or walking to the end of the stone wall by the Park Hotel, and stumbling upon a footbridge bridge on the other end of the Colligan river. Wandering brings about a joy that isn't found in the mundane. 

This past Saturday, when a group and I went to Cork, I got to spend time feeling out of place and lost in a city. Even though it was stressful and we missed one, and almost two, buses home it was so fun! Feelings of wandering or being lost help me to see in the present, when I'm not entrenched in the doldrums of routine. I've learned that a walk, best without a set destination, helps me to feel this even while in town. 

These little stops also create a more honest, and less touristy, experience of place and people. I've loved stopping at the cheese and fudge place (I honestly don't know the name) and walking to the Cove on the Abbeyside strand at low tide. Most of all, I've enjoyed the lessened stress of time and work. 

There will likely be no other uninterrupted chunk of time like now to travel and enjoy until I change from a retail schedule, which is a bit of a sad thought. Overall, I'm glad that I am studying abroad. It's helping me to see how much of life slips by in the duties and responsibilities, and how little side quests can help me to feel alive again. 

While travelling, the most important thing I've learned is to give myself permission to experience everything and have fun. A lot of the time, I resign to apathy and wait for something to be over, so I can go on to the next responsible thing (going from
classes, to a job, to home, and then to a second job). Though this attitude helped me to get through long days of work and school, I'm learning that I can enjoy the little bits of life if I frame them as an adventure or unexpected. 

So while I'm abroad and don't often have plans for the weekends, I'm declaring Saturdays as "Side Quest Saturdays," where I will go explore a new place, hike, or intentionally try something out of my comfort zone. It's exciting because it's new, but it will also help me grow. Cheers to a new day! 

These new days also reminds me of Yeats' poem "When You Are Old," where he describes an old person reading a book of times, or their memories. Though Yeats casts this person as sad, I also think there is a glimmer of pride in having once lived, loved, and experienced the everyday. 

"...And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;...And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars." 

These are my favorite lines because they are all about the evasion of memory, of life, and even of the present moment. As the person looks into the past, they remember and possibly misremember the days, but fail to live out the one they are experiencing now. Their being "full of sleep" is both about being old, tired, and keenly aware of time. 

I love literature that works with time and age in new ways. This time abroad, with its expansion and abstraction of time in hours and days, is a wonderful experience of suspension of everyday life and thought. 

Afraid of the Dark?

I've realized that I don't spend enough time in the darkness, after the sun has set, to sit and reflect. I'm often scrolling on my phone, researching a new hobby, and sleeping through the time to wait for another day. Since I've been abroad, I've been sleeping less. All of the extra time I'm awake, then, is given to these toils. 

Darkness's physical reminder of not being able to see asks me to look inside and deal with the more difficult, present ideas (which is usually why I avoid it, hehe). I think that's what a lot of the poets and artists did to reflect human experience. They looked both inward and out toward the world, and shared their perspective. 

Even in Yeats' poem "The Lake Isle of Innisfree," he mentions the serenity and fullness of night and day:

"And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, 

And evening full of the linnet’s wings."

He finds beauty in all these times of the day, and peace in all the states he encounters too. This becomes a hope for peace with all things, even those he cannot control: the linnets, the bees, and the glade.  Nighttime brings an extra warmth and comforting glow to any kind of light, too. It's a kind of beauty that I'd like to understand more deeply. 

Some of the evening strolls and hurling matches have been my favorite activities. I think it's because I am aware as the deep grey takes over the sky, and I accept it as it happens. Someone told me that the trip is about halfway over today, and it was another thing I was shocked to hear. Like the night, I knew it was coming, but am sometimes still in denial when it arrives. I'd like to take this blog post to recognize some new goals for the second half of the trip, and to reflect on the first half. 

4 Weeks of Adventure in Ireland so Far (approximated timelines):

- Week 1: Arrive, Intro to Irish Cultures, Dublin trip!

    - Exploring Dungarvan when everything felt exciting and new

- Week 2: Castle ruins, Giant's Causeway, amazing hikes

    - Getting familiar with travelling

- Week 3: Waterford Greenway, beach walks, Irish football

    - 22nd birthday, getting to know people in the town

- Week 4: St. Patrick's, West Trip, and day hop to Cork

    - Realizing that the best memories are made when travelling

Moving Forward:

- Reaching out: as I get more comfortable in the place, I want to reach out to others more (even though the anxious part of me grimaces as I write this). 

- Find more opportunities to travel, whether it be in little day hops/side trips or exploring! 

- A picture a day: to remember the little moments. 

- Trying new things every day: it's initially difficult to try something new every day, whether it be an experience, food, walking a new route, ducking into a shop, or running out to see dolphins. 

Maybe the Isle of Innisfree isn't a place: it's wherever you choose it to be. I want to try to experience
Innisfree in everyday life, especially while I'm here, and even in the darker days and moments. 

Yeats' Isle of Innisfree in Sligo, credit to Tom Bartel (Google Images)

Old Market Art House

I stopped in at the Old Market Art House in town yesterday, mostly for an assignment for another class, and got swept up in the art of the town. The gallery itself is cute, small, and quiet. I found myself in awe of the paintings of places I'd recognized and been. Even now, when I look up Dungarvan on Google Maps, I recognize all of the pictures that pop up. It's so strange to think that a place like this could so quickly be familiar and still unknown. 

I do not know the place in this painting below, but it was a dreamy representation of what Dungarvan might look like a few years ago. The sharp edges of the oil paint stood out to me like the strata of color in the Cliffs of Moher, and I'm beginning to see a continuity and connection between all things. 

Like, for example, when Gianna and I stopped to watch dolphins this morning, I realized that the colors within the water are suspended and mixing. The water I was experiencing was not just Atlantic Ocean water, but also all the water that has touched and intermixed over time, from the Pacific, Antarctic, and other smaller streams. It's a kind of experience that I do not have words for, but an experience much like Mary Oliver's realizations in her poetry. 

This connection, found in the fine lines of the artwork, becomes a paradox itself. Because the lines are what create the boundaries, sections, and moments apart from other colors. The fine lines add style and texture that set this painting apart from the others as my favorite. 

These thoughts got me to muse on Irish art as a whole, and to notice how lots of their artwork center on the politics, place, and connected themes of Ireland. There is not one place the writers knew better than their own, even from afar like Joyce and Yeats. As I reread sections of Ulysses, I'm brought into a sharper understanding of place and references because I've been to some of the streets in Dublin, know about the authors he references, and have learned a little bit more of the history his characters grapple with. 

I can't speak for all Irish artists, authors, poets, and creatives, but it makes me so happy to see that they all create for some purpose. It's amazing to step into an artist's work in process, or one moment of their career, and see how differently their path winds in the next work. I read a short collection of Yeats' poems, and a bit of the Celtic Twilight before taking this class. But, going through the poems in the Irish landscape, with all of the history and context waiting to be discovered, I find these poems so much more invigorating. 

The Walking Gardens

During the West Ireland trip in the past week, I uncovered a new interest: gardens. Specifically walking in them. Our stops at Kylemore Abbey and the Muckross House were surprisingly my favorite of the whole trip because of the history and ornateness of the gardens. They were peaceful! It was freeing to wander, uncover new areas, and be in nature. The idea that someone designed these for ambling made the experience of them like none other. 

I've been the type to plan a garden, but to let it fall to weeds in the late summer heat. The purpose of those gardens were always for food, and never for beauty and enjoyment. The gardens at these places were different because they were made for enjoyment. I was caught in the ideas of uncovering new paths, exploring, hearing the birds around me, and even in experiencing the garden in different speeds of movement: a stroll, meander, walk, jaunt, jog, and run. This wonder and curiosity helped me to reframe my experiential idea of a garden. 

Killarney House Gardens

This trip to the gardens also taught me to see the everyday beauty in discovery. I'm beginning to love walking every day, simply to explore and move, and got the chance to discover the Killarney House Gardens near the Dromhall Hotel. The sun rising over the morning dew, over the gardens and trees and swans, are pure bliss. I loved the little adventures I got to take solo and with others during this trip, as they were all about exploration and getting swept up in the current of things. 

It reminds me of Seamus Heaney's poem "Blackberry Picking" because of the changing beauty in each moment. I'll include it here: 

Blackberry Picking, Seamus Heaney