It's three p.m. on a Thursday in St. Stephen's Green and it's sunny - so ridiculously sunny for Dublin that everyone's out and everyone's in shirtsleeves and everyone's on the grass and someone, some bold someone, is smoking pot; it floats on by in a sour whiff and Em and I remark on the absolute
You're a sight for sore eyes.
Five years ago, nearly to the day, I wrote this in my journal: I need to just give up – I’ll never be a writer. what ever made me think I could be one? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU’RE NOT CREATIVE?????? HOW CAN YOU BE A WRITER IF YOU NEVER WRITE EXCEPT
Back, back to auld haunts/Looking good, Dublin town but/Where am I again?
Again. Brick. Brown bread. Pasties. Statues. Mussels. Craic. Graduation Time.
America the beautiful.
On the platform of the Q train, heading out to Queens. A crush of people; all of us staring down the train tracks. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I think that girl pregnant. I turn to my left and it's a middle-aged woman; short sandy-colored hair and a soft Eastern European accent. Smiling at me, speaking in
Back in New York now; a lengthy layover between the wedding madness in Guatemala and my graduation from Trinity in Dublin. A layover because both far-flung events took space in a short time frame and the trip to Guatemala is, in essence, my trip to the West for the year so why not make the
25 degrees today - pure joy! - and caught sight of my first tourists; ill-fitting clothes, foreign faces, and blank expressions. It shocked me that they were so easily identifiable; makes me wonder how clueless I seemed last summer when I arrived myself. But they're breaking ground on the beach now - resurrecting the summertime